Shattered Chandeliers: In This Darkness
by Jordan A. Masters
Summary: Sequel to Unspoken Secrets. When eerie reminders of their past come knocking, will Erik's family be able to cope?
1. Last Night at the Opera

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—This story is the property of Jordan A. Masters and may not be reproduced in any way, shape, or form without express written permission of Jordan A. Masters, which can be obtained through email. It has not been posted for gain or profit. Some of the characters have been borrowed from Andrew Lloyd Webber's play and movie, _The Phantom of the Opera_, and I do not own these borrowed characters. Also, some lyrics have been borrowed from Webber's play, with slight modifications—I do _not_ own these lyrics, even though I have modified them.

* * *

_**Paris, France—April 17, 1871**_

_**Celeste—6:30 PM**_

"Oh, heavens, Celeste—you're not wearing _that_ to the opera!"

I looked down at myself. "This is the same gown I've worn to every important thing, Mother. I see no reason to change."

"Precisely because he has already seen you in it. You see no reason to dress nicely for Amédée, do you, child?"

"Nicely, yes. Ridiculously, no." I shook my head and put on my shoes. "Mother, he has already asked me to marry him—what more do I need to do to impress him? What call is there now? You have proven your point—your spinster daughter can still fetch a man if she so chooses." She said nothing. I had made my point.

When the rest of the family was ready—Father, Gregoire and his wife, Simon and his wife, and Mother—we set out from the hotel for the Opéra Populaire. Simon had been talking about the new opera for months—he and his business partner, my fiancé Amédée Leroux, had procured tickets for the premiere. As I spotted Amédée waiting by the entrance, my stomach did a flip. He was quite handsome, dressed as he was—formal evening dress, the _de rigueur_ opera fashion. I watched him tug at his collar, but with the bow tie, it didn't budge. Once he spotted us, he walked down toward us, shaking hands and saying his hellos.

I smiled as he got to me. "You look quite handsome, Amédée."

He bowed, doffing his hat at the same time. "_Merci_, Celeste." He held his arm out to me, and I took it. We followed my family up the stairs to the entrance, where Simon produced the tickets, and we were led to our seats. I smiled as I realized they were in the front row—he'd been so secretive about where the seats were, and now I knew why.

It wasn't much longer before the curtain opened and the show began. I leaned over to Amédée. "What's the name of this opera again?"

He smiled, leaning toward me. "_Don Juan Triumphant._ It's a new composition—I've never heard it before, but André and Firmin must think it's good if they're putting it on, right?"

I nodded, turning back toward the stage. Before I could take a moment to realize what the plot was, I spotted the young lead soprano—and was shocked. Christine Daaé, the fiancée of the Vicomte de Chagny? Surely, someone had to be joking—but no, she was the lead. And she was at least decent—better than the house's last soprano, at any rate.

I was thoroughly enjoying the show by the time I realized it must nearly be the end. I at least appreciated the libretto being written in French—I could understand it. But somehow the melodies, the lyrics, were recognizable—perhaps just too clichéd. But no—it was something else—I could feel it. I'd heard this before. This song about flames and passing the point of no return—I'd heard it before.

And the tenor…with a start, I realized that the man singing the song was not the same man that had been singing for the rest of the show. I recognized the voice—but from where…?

As the music reached the crescendo, I watched the young soprano pull the mask from her leading man's face—revealing a horrible visage beneath. The crowd erupted into screams—even Amédée and my family were screaming beside me—but I could only stare, now realizing why I knew the voice. "Erik…oh, _mon frère_, what have you done?"

With an angry cry, I watched him cut two ropes. A third cut sent him plunging into the stage, clinging to Christine and dragging her with him—they fell through a hole and were gone. Through the screams, I could hear cracking from above. I looked up.

The chandelier was swinging wildly, and as I watched, it started to come down. People now began pushing to get out of its way, but I could go nowhere, stuck in the middle of the row, frozen in fear. I heard a vicious cackle, more in my head than in reality. "Oh, _mon frère_…" I smiled—he'd always promised to free me from my nightmares.

So I didn't bother to move.


	2. By Your Hand

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—This story is the property of Jordan A. Masters and may not be reproduced in any way, shape, or form without express written permission of Jordan A. Masters, which can be obtained through email. It has not been posted for gain or profit. Some of the characters have been borrowed from Andrew Lloyd Webber's play and movie, _The Phantom of the Opera_, and I do not own these borrowed characters. Also, some lyrics have been borrowed from Webber's play, with slight modifications—I do _not_ own these lyrics, even though I have modified them.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA—May 16, 2032**_

_**Kit—7:30 AM**_

It was misty and dark. I couldn't see more than a foot in front of me. But I could hear him calling me—I needed to get to him. It would be all right if I could just see him.

"_Kitten…_"

The second his voice sounded clearly, the mist cleared. Now I could see him. He was locked in a cage, his heaving back facing me. In front of the cage was a throng of people; they were laughing, pointing, throwing things at him—he reached out toward a rotten apple core. His fingers were dirty, his nails broken and bleeding. His back heaved; I watched a tear glide down his cheek. It paused for a moment at the tip of his nose, unsure whether or not to drop into the straw beneath. In the crowd, a face seemed suddenly familiar; a woman, staring at him as though he were to be pitied. She almost looked like Meg—but I knew it couldn't be. I turned away.

"_Kitten…help me…_"

I walked forward again, through more mist—when it cleared, I saw him again. Now in full Phantom attire, he stood in his lair underneath the Opéra Populaire, Christine Daaé by his side. She was singing—I nearly covered my ears. _How_ on Earth he'd found her voice glorious was beyond me—but luckily, the sound muted before I could reach up to my head. I watched him turn toward me, his masked face staring straight at me.

"_Kitten…_" It was more deliberate now…stronger… "_Help me. Please …_"

I turned away and was immediately met with another view. He was now laying on a bed—our bed in New York. His face was intact; no hint of deformity. I was clutching his hand in my own. There were words, but I couldn't understand them. He reached up and laid his hand on my cheek, then took my free hand and brought it up to hover above his chest.

There was a knife in it. He smiled, and I saw his mouth move, but no sound. Another voice—deeper, not his—was heard. "_…by your hand…_" As the words echoed through the scene, I watched helplessly as my disembodied hand plunged the knife through Erik's heart.

* * *

I sat up in bed, shaking, sweat pouring off me. A dream. Only a dream.

I looked over at his pillow and put my head down on it. Even after four years, it still smelled faintly of him. Clutching it to me as I sat up, I cried hard.

"I killed him. I…killed him… I let him die…"


	3. Blood and Yew

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA—May 16, 2032**_

_**Gregory—9:00 AM**_

Once I'd found the book—a week ago—the moral debate had lasted all of twelve seconds. I was doing the spell. "Black arts" be damned—I was sick of seeing Mom upset and listening to her cry. I made sure the curtains were drawn, and then started.

I set up the circle just as the book showed me—first I put down the sand, pouring it in a large circle around the other stuff on the carpet. I wasn't overly worried about it—we had vacuums for a reason. I sat down inside the circle, setting up the other stuff—two candles: one white and one black, which I'd nicked from Aunt Margery's penthouse when she wasn't looking. It wasn't like she was using them. I set these in their holders and lit them. Between them on the floor, I set a small piece of yew wood. It had been a lucky find in the science lab at school—and without it, the spell would have been useless. I pulled a jar of sheep's blood—also nicked from school—toward me, and then I took off my mask, setting it on top of the yew.

I nearly laughed. _My_ mask…ha. _That_ piece of junk had gone into my father's coffin. The one I wore now was his. If my mother had known, she probably would have beaten me half to death for it, but I didn't care. I couldn't let the original Phantom's mask decay in a coffin.

Nor could I let the Phantom. Hence the spell.

As I unscrewed the cap from the jar, taking deep breaths to steady myself, there was a knock at my bedroom door. My head snapped instinctively toward it. "What?"

"What are you doing in there? I smell smoke."

I groaned softly. Damn my sister. "Go away, Ruthie. I'm busy."

"If you have pot in there, I swear to God…"

"_It's not fucking pot!_" I screamed. "Go away!" I heard her footsteps walking away, getting softer and heading down the stairs. I sighed. Turning my attention back to the task at hand, I finished unscrewing the lid of the jar and set it aside.

A few more deep, steadying breaths, and I knew it was time. I pulled the book into my lap, barely able to read the cursive handwriting in the dim light. I sighed—my French was atrocious. I knew Papa would be displeased if he knew. "_Dans le sommeil, il attend le salut_…"

There was another knock on my door, and I nearly choked on the final word in the line. Interrupting the spell was dangerous—even I knew that. "Gregory!" It was Aunt Margery. "Open the door!"

"I'm busy!"

"_Open the door!_"

"I'm studying! Is that a crime now or something?" I heard her sigh and walk away. Worried that I'd screwed up, I decided the best way to go would be to start the spell again. A deep breath…

"_Dans le sommeil, il attend le salut,__  
Seulement maintenant dans mes rêves.  
__La voix, une fois la fréquentation et le commandement,  
Maintenant fait silencieux par la tombe._"

I took the jar of blood in my hand and poured a generous amount into the eyehole of the mask, extremely careful not to get any on the mask itself—only on the yew beneath it. I put the jar beside me and continued.

"_Par les pouvoirs, laissez il dont la vie a été maudit,  
Damné par ce masque,  
Revenez maintenant…_"

From my door came another knock. "Gregory Raoul! Open the door! Now!" Mom. Shit. Gulping, I continued anyway.

"_Revenez maintenant, restitué à la vie!_"

As soon as the final word was out, I felt something strange in the room—another presence, possibly several. Caught in the moment, I couldn't help myself. "_Je vous attends, Père! Venez-moi!_" There were various bangs and shouts coming from my door, but my ears were deaf to them now. "_Venez-moi! Venez-moi!_"

The air between the candles—over the mask—started shivering. Blue and gold sparks started appearing there. I leapt to my feet, unable to contain myself any longer. "_VENEZ-MOI!_" I dropped the book—it landed on the floor. Even in the dim, flickering light, the hand-etched title was clearly visible—_Le Journal d'Étienne Chagny_.

My door burst open. With the quick blast of air, the candles went out. From behind me, there was a pause, then a long shriek—my mother. "_What have you done?!_"


	4. Ten Dollars

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA—May 16, 2032**_

_**Erik—9:30 AM**_

I sat on the bench, feeling the wood creak underneath me. With the unyielding attentiveness of a madman, I kept turning the bill over and over in my hands—the last ten dollars I had to my name. Ten dollars—and yet, I doubted it would take me as far as I wanted to go.

Four years. I'd spent four years and nearly five million dollars running. But from what and why…questions I still couldn't answer. I pulled a tattered, worn picture from my bag and stared for a moment before replacing it. My family—my beautiful family—how I must have broken their hearts. Someday I'd explain myself to them. Someday…

Stowing the bill in my pocket, I took stock of myself. My shoes had holes worn in them. I had long since walked the hem off my jeans—they'd never been too long, just too old. My shirt and jacket were in the same state of disrepair as the rest of my clothes—old, tattered, a few random stains here and there. I sighed. How much of a bum I must have looked to anyone walking by me. How the fools must have pitied me.

Yet I smiled. I had it. I hadn't squandered money on a ticket to Paris for nothing. The Opéra Populaire—the vulgar, new one—still stood, and in its heart I had found what I'd most desired. I didn't dare take it from my bag for fear that a passing _gendarme_ would take it from me, so I settled for a peek into the bag only.

My sword. The elegant blade with the death's-head grip was finally back in my possession. I grinned, wondering where to go with only ten dollars left to me. I thought for a moment, recalling a small—but decent—bakery not far away. A celebratory cake was in order.

And then I heard it. It came ringing through my ears, so clearly I could not have imagined it.

"_Venez-moi…venez-moi…s'il vous plaît, venez-moi…_"

I whipped my head about. French? Here? And so…Americanized… I sighed. The voice was recognizable, if slightly deeper than when I'd last heard it four years prior. I stood up, slinging my bag onto my shoulder. My sore feet complained as they took the full weight of body and cargo, but I had little other choice.

Walking to the street entrance—I had idly wandered into Central Park's Strawberry Fields—I managed to hail a cab. As I got in, the driver glanced at me in the mirror. "Where to?"

Sighing, I handed over the ten-dollar bill. "Seventh and West 57th, or as close to it as that'll get me."

The driver laughed. "You got it." I sat back in the seat, staring out the window as we idled in traffic—and couldn't help noticing the driver glancing back at me.

"Is there a problem?" I asked.

His eyebrows were knitted together. "Aren't you…?"

I growled low in my throat. "If you say my name, I _will_ make you regret it. Just stop talking and drive the damn cab."

He nodded. I stared out the window again.

After a few more minutes—we were nearing Lincoln Center—he glanced at me in the mirror again. "So, going home, Mr. Muhlheim?"

I growled and reached into my bag.


	5. The Fifty Thousand Dollar Dead Body

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA—May 16, 2032**_

_**Ruth-Ann—10:00 AM**_

I swatted lazily at a fly, turning the page of my catalogue. From the office, I heard the unmistakable sound of the clock chiming. After a moment or two, the fly buzzed by me again. "Jay? Do you have the flyswatter over there?" When there was no reply, I looked up. "Jason?"

He held up one finger—he was on the phone. I smiled to myself—he might only man the front desk on lazy Sundays, but that never stopped him from acting like it was his responsibility seven days a week. As he hung up, he turned to me. "Sorry, hon—what did you want?"

"The flyswatter. This little jerk keeps dive-bombing me." I swatted at it again as it flew by my ear.

He grabbed the flyswatter from the shelf in the desk, his eyes trained on the fly. As it perched on the edge of the desk, he slammed the swatter down on it. "Nobody messes with _my_ girl," he said, picking the swatter back up and wiping up the dead body. He kissed my forehead. "He won't trouble you no more," he said, trying his best at a Southern accent, but he shook his head. "My mom does it better."

"Well, she should—she's from Louisville." I grinned and turned my attention back to the catalogue. "What do you think, Jay?" I turned the current page toward him. "Red or blue lettering?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. They both look good to me."

I groaned. "Jay…these are our _wedding_ invitations. Don't you want them to look good?"

He nodded. "Yes, of course. But I'm a guy—you're asking me a question to which my answer can only be 'you pick, I don't care.' Because I don't." He shrugged. "I don't know what more you want from me on this—you must have asked me colors now about fifty times."

"Well maybe I don't want to plan a fifty thousand dollar wedding by myself, Jason. There are two of us—we should be doing this together." I frowned. "Unless you've changed your mind…"

He sighed. "Oh good grief! Just because I have no opinion on colors does _not_ mean I changed my mind about the damn wedding!"

I pouted. "All right, all right. You don't have to shout at me."

He sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. I'm just frustrated is all." He thumped his fist on the desk.

As he did, the front door opened. Uncaring—we had tourists and Phantom "phanatics" coming through the theatre almost daily now—I turned back to my catalogue. Jason, on the other hand, _did_ have to care—he was responsible for turning the tourists away on Sundays. "'Scuse me," he said, standing and peering over the desk. "I'm sorry, but the theatre is…" He trailed off, and I looked up at him. His mouth was agape, his eyes wide, staring over the desk. "Oh…my God…"

I followed his gaze. There was only one man, standing near the front door. He was completely disheveled—his hair was wild, his clothes torn and dirty, and unshaven—but despite his appearance, I'd have known that face anywhere. "Papa?"

He dropped the bag from his shoulder and grinned. "Is this any way to welcome your father home, Ruth-Ann?"


	6. Reflections

This story is rated M for some violence, brief images of nudity, coarse language, and adult themes. Viewer discretion is advised.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA—May 16, 2032**_

_**Kit—10:05 AM**_

I turned the mask over in my hands, wanting to scream but in too much disbelief. He'd switched their masks—but how? I'd kept such a close eye on Erik's after… I shuddered. No. I could not let myself think about that. I looked at Gregory—tears stained his face as he sat staring at me, waiting.

"What…what have you done?" I whispered. "What could you _possibly_ have been thinking?"

"I just thought…"

I waved my hand and cut him off. "No, you didn't. If you'd thought, you would have realized that spell was a _bad idea_, Gregory Raoul!" I sighed, sitting down in the chair across from him. There was silence between us for a few minutes.

"Mom…I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

I looked up at him. "You _stole_ things from school. You _stole blood_, for crying out loud…" I shuddered. "Gregory, you…you don't understand how fickle those spells can be. They hardly ever go right."

"But it _will_ go right, Mom."

"Because you say it will?" I stood up. "It takes more than willpower and hope to make a spell of that caliber go right." The phone started to ring. I looked at the clock—more out of habit of being perpetually late than actually caring—but it was only seven after ten. "Don't go anywhere," I said, holding up a finger. He nodded. I crossed to the phone and picked it up. "Yes? What is it?"

"Um…Mom?"

"What, Ruth?"

"There's a little bit of a situation down here. Can you come down?"

I sighed. "What is it?"

There were muttered male voices in the background, but I couldn't hear them clearly. "Uh…the cops are here. Apparently that stuff Greg took from school was missed, and they figured out it was him, or something like that…"

I sighed again. An embarrassment of this magnitude, I couldn't handle. "We'll be right down." Hanging up the phone, I beckoned to my son. "The _police_ are here, Gregory."

As we headed out toward the lift, I heard him gulp audibly. I turned to look at him—his face was paler than normal, unsheltered behind a mask. "Wha…what do you think they want?"

"You, I assume. You are quite the kleptomaniac, after all." As we descended in the lift, I felt him shift uncomfortably from foot to foot—probably trying to keep calm and failing miserably. "Greg, it'll be fine. I'll do what I can for you."

In the mirrored doors, I watched him nod. "May I have my mask back?"

I looked down at my hand—without realizing, I still had Erik's mask in my hand. I turned to my son. "_Whose_ mask?"

He gulped again—this time it seemed less like nerves and more like swallowing a nasty retort. "_Papa's_ mask." There was a small pause—the lift whistled softly past floors. "May I have it, please?"

"Why?"

"To cover…_this_." He motioned to his face.

Feeling guilty, I faltered a moment, nearly handing the mask to him. But a moment passed, and the feeling did too. "No, Gregory, you may not. You were foolish enough to relinquish yours…"

"I only did that so that a piece of our family history didn't have to rot in a tomb, Mom! You would just as soon have let that mask rot with him!"

Unable to control myself, I slapped him full across the face. "How _dare_ you raise your voice to _me_!" Immediately, as I stood there staring at him—his face turned toward the doors, unmoving—I wanted to pull him to me and hug him, but I knew if I did, he would learn nothing. I bit my tongue, unable to say anything else.

And then I heard him laugh—a long, low thing that chilled me completely. It was far too familiar a sound… "Would you prefer a softer tone, Mother dear?" he whispered—but even the whisper sounded loud in the confined space. "Or perhaps this is still too loud?" He turned to me, a cold fury burning in his eyes. Without a sound, without a fight, he pulled Erik's mask from my hand and put it on, turning away from me as he did.

I backed up, my back against the wall of the lift, just staring at my son. Had I really made him into the little monster I was seeing now? Was this _my_ fault? I turned away from him—I couldn't look at what I'd done to my innocent little baby. Instead, I caught my own reflection forced back at me. Not a wrinkle, not a trace of gray hair—I looked perfect. I wanted to cry. It wasn't natural for a forty-five-year-old woman to look twenty-two with no work whatsoever. No cosmetic surgery, no "miracle diets" or health drinks—no. This was something entirely different.

As the lift settled to the ground floor, Gregory turned to me—I caught the movement in the mirrored wall. "I can handle this. You can go hide upstairs, if you want." He turned away as the doors started to open. "Since that's all you _ever_ do." He stepped out and walked away.

I leaned against the wall, sliding down it to rest on my knees, my eyes overflowing. My son hated me; my daughter, the perfectionist bride-to-be and prima donna; and my husband… Somewhere along the way, I'd lost myself—I'd lost my _raison d'être_. Dancer…singer…wife and mother…now what was I? I had to be something more than a widow—but my children were nearly grown, nearly able to run the theatre themselves…

I curled up in the corner of the lift as the doors slid shut, sobbing into my knees. "_Venez-moi_…" I whispered—it carried in the small space.

From outside the lift, I heard Gregory scream.


	7. The Chosen One

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

Author's Note: Due to illness, in this chapter, the part of Kit Chagny Muhlheim will be played by a small, wrinkled midget.

* * *

_**London, England, UK—January 14, 1987**_

_**Erik—10:30 PM**_

She had been gone for hours—since almost two this morning—and by now I was going a bit stir-crazy. The girls were running wild upstairs—practicing on the stage without permission or supervision, gossiping, eating everything in the pantry—hell, the younger ones were jumping on the beds! I longed to go upstairs and create some semblance of order, but I knew it would only irritate Meg if they set eyes on me. And she didn't require much to be irritated lately—the extra hormones from the baby were driving her crazy enough.

By the time the clock was chiming eleven, I had a raging headache—but the noise had finally ceased. I nearly ventured upstairs—through special means, by no means would I use the door—to see what had changed, but I heard the cellar door open and knew immediately.

Meg was home. About fucking time, too—I needed aspirin.

The moment she appeared, the book I'd been reading—Antoinette's journal—went flying, and I stood to confront her. "Where the _hell_ have _you_ been?"

She raised an eyebrow and sat down on my cot. "I thought I told you when I left this morning. Owen called from hospital—Rita went in to have the baby."

I sighed. "So what?"

"So they needed me to watch Greg." Now it was her turn to sigh. "That little tyrant's got more energy than I could ever hope to have." She lay back on the cot. "I'm so physically exhausted I think I need you to carry me upstairs."

"You know I can't do that. Someone might see me." I shook my head. "Meg, damn it, those _children_ upstairs have been intolerable. I need aspirin."

Without looking up at me, she chuckled. "I'll toss the bottle down the stairs."

"I'm goddamned serious!" I flinched—my scream sounded louder with a migraine.

And, just then, her earlier words hit me. "Rita had the baby? Owen has _two_ children now?"

She sat up and nodded. "I was wondering when you'd stop being thick enough to let it through. Yes. Owen's got another child."

I sat down in my chair, momentarily overcome. "I thought those two agreed they wouldn't have any more after Gregory…"

"That's what I thought, too, but Rita got pregnant again right before I did." She shook her head. "I could have sworn I told you all this before now…"

"I think you did, but I just don't remember it." I massaged my temples—the migraine wasn't going away of its own accord. "Uh, this new child…what's its name?"

She sighed—almost dreamily, I thought. "It's a girl, Erik."

That caught my attention. "A…" I choked on the word. "A girl?"

"Yes. A girl. And you cannot go mad when you hear her name—it is what Owen and Rita decided on together."

I nodded. "Tell me."

She grinned. "Her name is Christine Erika Daaé-Chagny." She looked away from me, apparently lost in thought.

With her distracted, I whispered to myself. "_Un est né qui mettra fin à son douleur et souffrance_… So it seems I have found you at last, my chosen one."


	8. Elevated Speech

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York City, NY, USA—May 16, 2032**_

_**Erik—10:15 AM**_

I watched my son step out of the elevator—face half-masked, shirt stained, jeans torn at the knees, sneakers caked with dried mud. I grinned—always such a mess, my boy. He took a few steps—the elevator doors slid shut as he did—and he finally looked up toward me.

The moment he spotted me, he stopped dead in his tracks. His mouth dropped open. "P…Papa?" he gasped. I nodded, and as I went to speak, he screamed. Well…perhaps "scream" wasn't the best description for it—it was more of a joyous cry. He ran and leapt at me, embracing me—laughing, I pulled him to me tightly.

As I stood there, hugging my now-crying son, I heard a soft plea ring through my ears. "_Venez-moi_…" I looked about—no one seemed to have spoken. Then I took a closer look—someone seemed to be conspicuously absent from the group.

Sitting once more behind the desk was Ruth-Ann, now thoroughly uninterested in further goings-on—her bridal magazine was far more intriguing. Next to her, on the phone with someone or other, was Jason Montpelier—who, I had been informed not five minutes ago, was to be my son-in-law. Thoroughly disgusted at the thought—my finely-trained soprano wedding a mere stagehand—I turned my gaze to Gregory. He was still next to me, grinning from ear to ear.

And the second it hit me, I felt like an idiot for not having realized who was missing quicker.

I looked at Gregory, and before he could speak, I did. "_Mon fils_, where is your mother?"

He indicated the elevator with a quick jerk of his head. "She probably went back upstairs. She hides up there now—she barely does anything else."

I wanted to scold him for telling such lies—the woman I'd married was by no means lazy or weak. Unfortunately, given my four-year absence, I almost had to agree—when Kit had said "I can't live without you, Erik," I had very nearly changed my mind about… But it was no matter now—I'd go and make my apologies to her.

I walked over to the elevator and tapped the button. As the doors slid open—the thing was still on the ground floor—I heard sniffling from inside. "Kit?" I called softly. It took only one step inside to reveal her—sitting on the floor, knees up to her chin, crying. "Kit?" I knelt down by her, touching her shoulder. "_Ma chérie, pourquoi criez-vous?_"

Her head snapped up, and her tear-filled eyes caught mine. I saw a look of pure terror flicker through them—a mere moment, and then it was gone, and her lips broke into a trembling smile. "Erik? Is it…is it really you?"

I stroked her cheek tenderly. "Yes. Don't fret—I'm not a dream, _je vous promets_." Her smile deepened. She moved slightly, settling herself into my arms, her head on my shoulder. "_Je suis ici, Chaton_." I felt a tear drop onto my neck. "Don't cry. I'm right here."

I felt her sigh. "I didn't think it would work… How on Earth…?"

"You know if you call me I have to come. I heard Gregory call me—I was only in Central Park, my love. Not so far away." I smiled as she sat back from me. "So I came home."

She looked confused now. "Wait. You…How were you _possibly_ in Central Park? You were _dead_ in Paris."

I ran my hand through my hair, knowing there was no way around it now. "Yeah…um…about that…"

Her right hand began to tremble—I caught the minute movement out of the corner of my eye. "Erik…"

"I wasn't dead, Kit. I was just too afraid to look you in the eye after doing something as stupid as faking my death so I could…" She didn't even let me finish—the trembling hand came flying up to my face before I got the whole explanation out. After four years, the slap was quite a bit harder than I remembered—her backhand must have had some practice with our ever-rebellious son.

I tried to continue, but now she was crying again, cursing profusely—more "bloody hells" and "God in Heavens" than I'd ever heard out of her mouth—and all in the same wonderful accent she'd been losing when I'd last seen her. And then, without warning, the string of curses stopped. She took a breath and slapped me again—I fell back against the wall, my hand against my stinging left cheek.

"_Dieu dans le ciel, Christine! Qu'ai-je fait?_" I couldn't help but shout—I knew I'd done something wrong, but to be struck twice in the same five-minute span by my own wife was intolerable. "Huh? _Qu'ai-je fait?_"

"_Tu le fils d'une chienne! Vous comme une carte détaillée de que vous avez fait?_" She was screaming even louder than me, if it was possible. And she continued to scream for a full five minutes—surprisingly, her entire rant was in French.

And here I'd thought she couldn't speak my mother tongue. But as aroused by it as I was, I knew there was something I had to do first—she would never forgive me until I asked for it, and even then, given her screaming, it wasn't a guarantee.

"Kit, I…" I faltered as she stared at me, tears streaming from her eyes. My hands shook—I put them on her shoulders and held on for dear life. "I'm sorry. I am. What I did was wrong, and there's no excuse. There's nothing I can say to make it better and I know that. But please, just hear me out."

There was a very long silence between us as her eyes burned through me. "Upstairs. We'll talk alone upstairs."

Without hesitation, I climbed to my feet and pressed the button for our penthouse. As the doors slid shut, I held my hand out to her and helped her up. "Just promise me you'll hear me out before you go off on me again."

"I promise, Erik."

Another long silence. As we passed what I guessed was the fifteenth floor, I turned to her, half-smiling. "So…when exactly did you learn to speak _Français_?"

She gave me the same half-smile. "_Tais-toi._"


	9. Impossible To Kill

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York City, NY, USA—May 16, 2032**_

_**Kit—10:30 AM**_

There was silence between us as we entered the penthouse. We went into the sitting room—I took a seat on the sofa, he in one of the armchairs. There were about half a million questions, things I wanted to say, but somehow I just couldn't make my mouth form the words. The only sound in the entire room was the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.

After what seemed an hour, he looked up at me. "You look good, Kit."

I sighed. "And there's nothing strange about it to you? Not a blessed thing?"

"Should there be?"

"Erik, do you even remember how old I am?"

He sighed, rising from the chair and starting to pace the length of the room. "Yes, of course I remember how old you are."

"Then how…"

He turned to me. "You're…" A pause, then a low whistle. "You don't look it. You don't look it at all." His brow furrowed, his eyes widening in what seemed a combination of confusion and amazement. "You _really_ don't look it. You look…"

"I look twenty-two." Now I rose from my seat and started to pace, slowly, in front of the sofa. "Mentally and chronologically, I'm forty-five."

"I _was_ trying to avoid actually bringing that up, if you had noticed…"

"Yes, but why bother? It's the truth. I'm forty-five. It's not a bad number—I'm the mother of two children, the eldest of whom is in her early twenties." I shook my head. "But physically, I'm twenty-two—and more often mistaken for said child's _sister_ than her _mother_!" I turned to him, hands shaking. "Erik, something happened to me. I think I know what—I hope to God I'm wrong, but I think I know…"

He took me by the shoulders, shushing me softly. "Kit, there's no possible way. We broke the curse."

"Then why aren't you dead?"

There was silence for a moment. "A fair question," he said. "Why _aren't_ I dead?" He shook his head, his eyes sad. "Unfortunately, not a question I'm certain I can answer for you. All I know is that four years ago, I had a heart attack, which was real and should have been fatal, and it wasn't. That's what I know."

"Then why did you act as if it was?"

He sighed again, this time sitting back in the chair, resting his elbow on the arm and dropping his chin into his hand. "Just promise not to get mad when I tell you."

"I can't. Just tell me."

He nodded. "Fair enough." He ran his tongue along his lips and sighed once more. "I should have told you. It was unfair of me not to tell you before I did it—it was unfortunate that for four years, all three of you have had to live with the thought that I've been dead—and for that, I'm sorry." He sat up straight, staring at me. "Kit…I tried to bury the Phantom once and for all."

My knees went weak, and, unable to stand up any longer, I collapsed onto the sofa again. "You…you did _what_?"

"I know, I know, it's unbelievable…"

"Unbelievably _stupid_, more like."

His head snapped up—his eyes now held anger. "What?"

"You…you _can't_ bury the Phantom. It's _impossible_."

"Tell me how."

I sighed. "As real as you are, sitting here before me, _he_ exists now only as a myth. He lives in the hearts and minds of so many people that it is _impossible_ to kill him, Erik—even when you die, he won't. The Phantom will outlive you. He'll outlive me, Ruthie, Gregory…he'll outlive our grandchildren, and our great-grandchildren, and on and on down the line." I shook my head. "Darling, when you decided to become the Phantom of the Opera, you created a monster. You created your legacy, and no matter how hard you try, even _you_ can't kill it."

He nodded slowly. As he opened his mouth to speak, there was a knock on the door, and before either of us could call out an answer, it opened slowly. "Mom? Papa?"

Erik looked—I followed his gaze. "Yes, Gregory, what is it?" Erik said quietly.

He walked into the penthouse, holding out a large, tattered duffel bag. "Uh…Papa forgot this downstairs. I thought I'd bring it up."

Erik stood and took the bag from Gregory. "Thank you…" Before he got any further, Gregory had pulled Erik into a tight embrace. He dropped the bag heavily on the floor and wrapped his arms about his son. "_Mon fils_…"

"I knew it would work," I heard my son whisper. "I knew you'd come back." Without another word from either of them, they released each other, and Gregory walked upstairs. The moment I heard his bedroom door shut, Erik spoke.

"Did he really think the call would fail?" He shook his head. "All right, granted, you had no possible way of knowing I was in New York, but still…" I coughed, not wanting to say anything—but he caught it and immediately turned to me. "Kit, what is it?"

"That's…that's not _quite_ what he was referring to, darling."

His brow furrowed. "Then, if you please, to what exactly _was_ our son referring?"

I gulped. "He, er…" There was no possible way around it—I couldn't keep it from him, I _shouldn't_ keep it from him. "He used a spell to bring you back to life—of course, you not exactly being dead, it _obviously_ didn't work, but he doesn't know that…" I trailed off as he shut his eyes, his head drooping. When he next spoke, his voice was no higher than a whisper.

"Our son was dabbling in that which I've forbidden in my house?" He looked up at me. "And you _allowed_ this?"

"Well I didn't exactly _allow_ it so much as he did it without my knowledge or permission…"

His eyes narrowed and he looked toward the stairs. Only a moment's pause passed. "_Gregory Raoul Muhlheim, venez ici! Maintenant!_" I heard the unmistakable tinkling of crystal as the china shook in the cabinet—he was pissed.

My legs shaking, I made to stand. "Erik…darling, don't be so angry. He just…"

"No! No 'he justs'! No excuses!" With a furious cry, he swept a ceramic vase off a side table—it fell to the floor and shattered. "I leave and my _entire family_ goes to hell!"

Tears started welling in my eyes, but I couldn't hold my tongue any longer. "Well maybe if you hadn't left, your son wouldn't have felt the need to go messing around with the Black Arts!" My scream couldn't rival his this time, but it was enough—silence reigned in the room for a moment. "Erik, for four years, all we've wanted was you…back here, safe and sound." In three short paces, I had my arms about his neck, nuzzling his nose with my own. "You're our world, darling, and quite frankly we're lost without you. I don't know how we managed four years without killing each other or ourselves, but here we are…and here you are…" I trailed off, kissing his lips softly. "Don't be so angry with him. He only did what he thought was right."

"I can't believe you're defending him." It was soft—not a scream, as I expected. "I cannot _believe_ you're _defending_ him on this."

"Erik, it's not as though he's going to try it again. You're back, the spell obviously failed because you weren't dead…" I kissed him again. "Darling, I won't stop you from scolding him a little, but all in all, can't we let it go? Please? You're back—can't we just be a happy family again?" As much as I tried to stop the tears in my eyes from spilling over, they did.

And he saw them and caved. "Damn it, why do you make me so weak?" He kissed me deeply, one hand about my waist, the other on the back of my neck. For the first time in four years, I was actually happy.

"Ew! Gross! You called me down for _this_?" We parted, and I turned to see my son feigning vomiting at the foot of the stairs. I turned back to Erik—we laughed and kissed again as Gregory retreated back upstairs.


	10. L'Enfer

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York City, NY, USA—May 16, 2032**_

_**Gregory—12:30 PM**_

I sat in the living room, staring at the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my sister's mouth hanging open—next to her, Jason sat staring straight ahead, a faraway look in his eyes.

I couldn't lift my head. To do so would mean looking straight at my father—and after what he'd just said, I couldn't bring myself to do it. All for nothing—everything I'd done, all the preparation for bringing him back—it had all been useless. He'd never died.

He'd lied to us. After the way he'd brought me up—always be courteous, always be direct, and always be _honest_—he'd gone and lied, then run off for the better part of four years. And he'd had the nerve—the _nerve_—to scold _me_ for what I'd done. I couldn't look at him—I was afraid that at this point, my gaze _could_, in fact, kill a person. I'd much rather burn a hole in the carpet than in my father—doing the latter might upset my mother a tiny bit more than I could stand to do.

"Gregory?" My father's voice sounded like it was coming from across the theater—I couldn't hear clearly, I was so mad at him. "Son, look at me."

"No."

With every syllable, his voice grew clearer. "_Est-ce que vous êtes furieux de moi, mon petit fils?_"

My head snapped up, and I could feel my upper lip curling. "I'm _not_ a little boy!"

He looked taken aback. "You're _my_ little boy…" I got up from the chair, walking toward the door. "Gregory…"

"_Laissez-moi tranquille._" I could hear footsteps—his—behind me, coming up quick, and I walked slightly faster toward the door.

"Gregory, stop!"

Opening the door, I turned on my heel and stared at him. "_Allez à l'Enfer!_" He stepped back—visibly—as though I'd slapped him in the face. Considering what I'd said, I probably had—he had a wounded look in his eyes. Without waiting for him to find his tongue to reply, I slammed the door behind me and stormed off to the end of the hall, jabbing my thumb onto the call button for the elevator. The doors opened immediately—no one had called it away from the penthouse floor. I stepped inside and punched the button for ground floor just as the door of the penthouse opened, and my father's form stepped into the hallway.

"Gregory! _Attendez!_" But the elevator doors closed before he could stop me, and I felt the elevator kick into motion. Within moments of departing the penthouse floor, I felt some of the tension leave me—I felt slightly calmer, but nowhere near calm enough to face my father yet.

He'd yelled at me. For fifteen minutes after his explanation—and after Ruthie's cry-fest—he'd actually had the _gall_ to yell at me for switching our masks. He'd yelled at me for doing the spell—the damn thing had _failed_, why did he feel the need to add insult to injury by calling me an "arrogant amateur," yelling at me for _dabbling_ with forces I couldn't possibly comprehend? He talked as though he was some moral authority on the proper and improper use of the Black Arts—he'd used them for the better part of a _century_! The lying, backstabbing son of a…

The elevator stopped, and the doors opened on the apartment house lobby. Squaring my shoulders, I strode out of the elevator and across the lobby, making for the stage door and only praying it wasn't locked. Halfway to the door, I noticed a woman in the lobby, reading something on the wall. Though I feared my father would either call back the elevator—or was, at this very moment, hurrying down the thirty-six flights of stairs to try and catch me—I stopped. I had to do something before someone else found this woman—even at my worst, I was still the most polite one in the theater. "Excuse me, can I help you?"

She turned, a confused look on her otherwise pleasant face. "_Est…est ce Enfer?_" Her voice was familiar… "_C'est l'Enfer, n'est-ce pas?_"

I looked at her frightened face, creeping slightly closer to her. "No…no, this isn't Hell…"

"Then…" She looked me from head to toe, her eyes wide in fright. "I'm in New York again, aren't I?" A moment went by—I nodded—and a tiny smile crept onto her face. "I thought I recognized that face. You've grown, Gregory."

I paled and gulped, now realizing who was standing in front of me. "Gr…Grandma Meg?"


	11. A Little Disaster, Now And Then

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York City, NY, USA—May 16, 2032**_

_**Erik—12:45 PM**_

"_Allez à l'Enfer!_" Without waiting for a reply, he walked into the hall and slammed the door behind him. I stood staring at it for a moment, stunned. _That_ phrase, from my own son's mouth, and aimed at me… I hadn't expected it over this. I hadn't expected him to be quite so angry with me—I _knew_ he'd be a little angry with me, but if I'd known he was going to be _this_ furious…

And then I remembered which of us was the adult—and which was the child.

I flung the door wide and walked into the hallway. He was already in the elevator. I started toward him, jogging slightly. "Gregory! _Attendez!_" But the elevator doors closed before I could reach him, and I heard the elevator kick into motion. "Damn it," I whispered, halting near the wall and slamming my fist against it. Turning the other way, I headed for the stairwell.

Kit was in the penthouse doorway. "Erik, what…?"

Still heading for the stairs, I called back to her. "Call the elevator back and get down there. He doesn't get to talk to me that way." I heard a grunt of agreement from her. Shoving the stairwell door open, I started running down the steps. There were only thirty-six double flights of stairs—one thousand, two hundred ninety-four steps including the landings—I could probably beat him down to the lobby if I tried.

But at age 194, I wasn't sure I felt like trying.

Two floors up, I decided I'd had enough of the stairs. I grabbed hold of the railing and hoisted myself over it, dropping the last two stories in an instant—unfortunately, I'd forgotten just how long a drop it was, so my descent was accompanied by an unnerved yelp. I did manage to land on my feet—more of a miracle than I wanted to admit at this point. I had been certain, as I jumped, that my ankle would at least be broken when I hit the ground. I may not have been able to die—I still wasn't sure how that was possible _now_—but a broken bone could still make my life a living hell.

I ran for the door and hit it full speed, knocking it open easily—only to find that I was, unfortunately, the very _last_ one to the lobby. Even Kit, Ruthie and Jason—with having to wait for the elevator and the entire ride down—had gotten there before me. They were all staring at Gregory, who was in the arms of a small blonde woman I vaguely recognized. At the sound of the door slamming behind me—startled, I tried desperately not to jump, but from a veiled snicker by my wife, I doubted my success—all eyes in the lobby turned to me, and the blonde frowned. "_Mon Dieu_, Erik, you look terrible. If I didn't know you better, I'd say you needed a holiday away from the theatre."

I gaped, immediately recalling the face—though it had been at least a hundred and fifty years since I'd seen it that particular way. "_Meg?_"

The tiniest of smiles crept onto her face. "Why, you _do_ pay attention after all." She walked over to me and gave me a quick squeeze, which I returned in a slight daze, then held me at arm's length and frowned at me again. "Erik, what in God's name is going on here? I distinctly remember dropping _dead_…"

"That you did…"

"Yet now I'm here, young and fresh-faced and very much alive. What in _God's name_ is going on?"

I shook my head, not wanting to answer but very afraid that I knew precisely what it would be regardless. Gregory's spell may have failed to rouse me—my not being entombed in Paris as previously thought would most definitely have hindered that particular aspect—but, having glanced over the spell, I now knew what had occurred.

My son—who spoke French about as well as I spoke Russian—had read the spell correctly, had done everything right. However, a slight mispronunciation in the wording—verbally altering one pronoun, possibly—had roused Meg instead of me. I could only stand there and wonder if "_those whose lives were cursed, damned by the mask_" would truly rise from the grave to haunt me again.

As Meg walked back to kiss Kit on the cheek, I walked over and stared down my son. "You've just unleashed a disaster beyond your imagination—beyond _my_ imagination. What do you have to say for yourself _now_?"

He gulped audibly, staring at the back of Meg's head. "How…how do we stop this?"

I faced toward Meg as well, sighing. "_We_ don't. _I_ do."

"But Papa…"

I whirled on him. "No excuses, _enfant_! You will _listen_ to me and do precisely what I tell you to do and _nothing else_. Do I make myself clear?"

He nodded. "But why…?"

I drew myself up straight—although I might have only gained an inch, it did the job. He cowered. "Because I am your father, and I said so." I looked away from him. "You wanted me back—now you'll obey me."

I stared at the girls—Meg, Kit, and Ruthie—while Jason and Gregory made their way into the stage area. Inside my head, a tiny voice was laughing at me. _A disaster beyond all possible imagination—happy birthday, Erik._


	12. Raising Hell

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York City, NY, USA—May 16, 2032**_

_**Kit—2:30 PM**_

We made sure Meg was comfortable—we'd put her in Margery's penthouse, who had been even more surprised than the rest of us to see her…and Erik. There had been plenty of whining, crying, fainting—then more crying and a lot of hugs. But all in all, the two seemed comfortable with the arrangement—even if Meg _did_ now sort of look like Margery's daughter instead of the other way 'round. As soon as we were certain things would be all right with them, Erik and I went back to our penthouse—he wanted to take a shift at the front desk, but I called Sophia and asked her to do it. When I hung up, he was staring at me. "What, darling?"

His frown looked almost out of place. "You didn't tell her. You haven't told everyone yet."

"Told everyone what?"

The frown deepened. "That I'm alive." I could almost hear the childish "duh" in his tone.

I sank onto the sofa. "I'll do it later…much later…maybe tomorrow. I'm just…I can't deal with that kind of excitement right now. Besides," I said, batting my eyes a little, "I kind of want you all to myself right now."

Slowly—_very_ slowly—the frown turned into a half-smile. "Does that mean what I think it means?" I nodded. He strode over to the sofa—three steps was all it took—and in one swift motion hoisted me into his arms. Once he had made sure he had me securely, he walked toward the stairs.

I giggled. "What on _Earth_ are you doing?"

He silenced me with a kiss and started up the stairs. Every footstep echoed through my body, and what had started as a small tingle at the base of my spine quickly became a full-body itch. "I have missed you," he whispered, walking into our bedroom and kicking the door shut behind us. He walked over to our bed and carefully placed me down on it, moving a finger to my lips. "Don't move," he whispered, and after I nodded my agreement, he walked back to the door and locked it.

"Erik," I said, looking about the room for the clock—it was nearly three in the afternoon. "You don't really think this is the best time for this…?"

He looked at me quizzically, striding back slower than he probably would have if I'd said nothing. "You never _used_ to object to this. What's changed?" When I said nothing, he stopped in the middle of the room—his expression changed, from a questioning look to one of disbelief. "There's someone else, isn't there?"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake…" I rolled over, putting my face into my hands.

"Come on, Kit, be honest with me." His tone was softer than I expected from a man who thought he'd been cheated on by his own wife. "Just tell me there's not another man in your life."

I rolled over again, now staring at him. "Honestly, Erik, you think I'd do that to you?"

"I think the thought may have crossed your mind after you thought your husband had _died_," he said, his voice rising slightly. "And if you'll recall your reaction when you first laid eyes on me today, you didn't exactly give me the homecoming I'd expected…actually," he said, cocking his head to the side, "you gave me _exactly_ the homecoming I'd expected. Not the one I wanted, though—my idea of a 'glad to see you' reaction doesn't include a slap or two."

I rose from the bed. "What did you really expect? You _faked your death_ and ran out on us! You expected us to just _forgive_ you?"

"Would that be so difficult?"

"It doesn't work that way!" Against my will, my voice was rising. "You can't just leave without telling us, run off to only God knows where for _four years_, and then expect to walk back in here and have it be okay! It's _not_ okay!"

He was silent for a moment as my scream finished ringing through the room. "Well, thank you for setting me straight on that," he said, so softly I almost had to ask him to repeat it. Without a sound, he unlocked the door, pulled it open, and slowly left the room.

I sighed. "Erik, wait." I walked to the top of the stairs—he had stopped at the bottom, not looking up toward me. "What's _really_ the problem? You've never reacted like this before when I…" I couldn't finish—he'd never reacted like that before, _ever_, for anything.

There was silence for a few moments—the only sound was the circulating fan running softly in the background. "I'm ashamed of what I did—of leaving all of you for so long, of doing something so childish I couldn't face any of you for so long. I've been very afraid for the last few years that you'd go and find another, and with the world believing me dead, I would have no way to stop you." He half-turned toward me—he was in profile, but I could tell the expression in his eyes was less than happy. "I suppose it's my own fault, really, but I honestly never thought you'd yell at me on my birthday, of all days." His hand released the banister, and he walked away toward the parlor.

I leaned my back against the wall, closing my eyes. In all the excitement of the day, I had forgotten my own husband's birthday. I felt like an ass.

I heard a loud thump from the parlor. "_Kit! Get down here!_" He sounded panicked—a sound I didn't like coming from him. In seconds, I found my feet and had somehow made it to the bottom of the stairs without falling on my face.

"Erik, what?" I flew into the parlor, noticing the TV was on but not paying attention to it. "What is it?" He motioned to the TV, opening and closing his mouth a few times with no sound coming out. I looked—a "Breaking News" banner was on the bottom of the screen, and the fresh-faced-but-still-forty anchorman was speaking.

"…more reports of these strange occurrences are coming in from Europe. We…" He paused a second, putting his hand to his ear. "I'm being told we're going to go live to Paris, to our French correspondent…"

I looked at Erik. "What the bleeding hell…?"

"My…my worst nightmare has come true," he said. He was looking paler by the second—all the blood seemed to be draining from his face. I took his arm and pulled him back to the sofa, forcing him to sit down before he fell over. "It's happening, Kit."

"What's happening…?" He shushed me and motioned to the TV again. I looked—now it was a woman on the screen, sharing a split-screen with the anchor.

"…from all reports, these occurrences started around three this afternoon, and have been continuing for some time. Now, we are not at this time being allowed to disclose names…"

The anchor cleared his throat. "Does this seem to be an isolated incident?"

"No, it doesn't. We've had reports of these occurrences from all over France—Paris and Rouen seem to have the most reports, but there are reports coming in from Chartres, Lyon, Avignon, Marseille… We've even heard of a report from as far away as Turin, Italy…and of course, all of these are in addition to those reports from the New York area…"

I heard a muted, strangled cry come from Erik's throat, and turned to him. "Are you all right?" He shook his head, his eyes wide. "What is it?"

"Why…?" He took a breath. "Some birthday present, and from my own son…"

"Darling…?"

He looked at me. "He woke the dead." He turned away, back toward the TV, as the phone rang. "That'll be Sophia. I have an odd feeling, my dear, that at least the majority of those people recently woken are going to make their way to our lobby within the next few days." He sank into the back of the sofa.

I reached for the phone. "I should have _burned_ that damn book when I had the chance."


	13. One More Lie

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Paris, France—February 28, 2004**_

_**Kit—12:00 PM**_

I shook off Meg's hand—I didn't care what happened to me now. "_Erik!_"

For a moment, time seemed to stop—I watched as his eyes widened, then his head fell forward. Nichole pulled the knife out of his chest, stepping back. There was silence—everyone was fixated on Erik.

J. Pierre's voice broke the silence. "Um…Nicki…?"

"What?" I turned to look at her, and caught sight of the knife in her hand. There was no blood on it. Quickly, my head snapped back to Erik—he wasn't bleeding. In fact, the wound that should have been made by the knife almost seemed to have disappeared.

A moment later, I heard a low laugh coming from Erik. He raised his head slowly, glaring at Nichole. "You think it's that easy?" he said softly. "If only. But please, do try again. I haven't been stabbed in—oh—maybe eighty years. I'd forgotten what it felt like. Please, do try again."

Still frozen, knowing I could do nothing, I watched as she rushed over to him. I feared she'd stab him again, cut his throat perhaps—instead, she took hold of his mask and pulled it off.

The reaction was immediate.

Everyone assembled reacted as I thought—the women screamed and ran, the men just ran. Nichole backed up quickly, and I watched as the mask started to fall from her hand. I nearly screamed again, but Meg covered my mouth again, holding my arm so I couldn't run to save it. I watched it tumble slowly toward the floor and hit—the moment it did, it shattered into at least thirty pieces.

I looked over at Erik. He was staring at the floor, at the pieces, tears in his eyes. "No…" He struggled a couple of times, but it was useless—even if he could get free, he couldn't repair it.

Nichole started laughing. "Oh, dear, dear. Now I've _really_ gone and done it, haven't I? Your precious shield—whatever will you do?" She turned around, now facing the few stagehands who'd remained—Toby included. "You know that cage sitting in the prop room? The one for the next show? Lock him in it."

"But…" Toby looked worried. "But that's just a prop."

"No, it's real. I figured we might need it for something…_else_," she said, looking back at Erik.

Before I could blink, the stagehands were moving toward Erik—determined but apprehensive, it looked like—and had untied him from the chair. They dragged him away toward the prop closet, and I wanted to follow, but Meg started dragging me in the opposite direction. "No, Kit, come on. Up to the dormitory with you."

"Not so fast, Giry," Nichole said from behind us. We stopped and turned. "Little Chagny there—you know him, don't you?" Her grin was almost too much. I shook my head, determined not to betray him—it'd be far too much for him to deal with if I suddenly ended up in that cage with him. "Oh, but I think you do. What was it you shouted when I had that knife in his chest? _Erik_, was it? Is that his name—Erik?"

I shrugged. "I…I don't…"

She threw the knife on the stage, now looking angry. "Don't you toy with me, child! I want the truth and I want it now! Do you know him, and is that his name? One answer will suffice for both." I could hear Meg hissing at me not to answer her, but the look in her eyes was just too much. I nodded slowly, and her grin just grew wider. "That's what I thought." Without another word, she walked away, taking the knife with her.

As she walked away, Meg rushed me toward her room, muttering the whole way. The moment she'd shut the door, I silenced her. "Meg?"

"What?"

"What the _bleeding hell_ was that?"

There was silence for a moment. "What do you…"

"Don't do that! You know what I mean! She _stabbed_ him—and he didn't…" I sat down on her bed, running a hand through my hair. "When she stabbed him, he didn't die. He didn't even bleed. How is that possible?"

She didn't answer me. She walked over to her night table and picked up a pair of scissors, opening the blade. Before I could say anything, she dragged it across her wrist—but nothing happened, not even a mark appeared. "We're immortal, child."

I blinked. "Well, yeah, I got that part."

She sat down next to me, putting the scissors back. "We're invulnerable to harm—she could have shot Erik and it would have made not a lick of difference, he would have been all right."

"Meg, that part I get. He's a hundred and sixty-five…"

"His birthday's in May, so add a year then."

I fingered the pendant around my neck, staring at the emerald for a moment. "I know." I shook myself. "I don't care! Meg, this isn't about him! What about you? Why you?"

She sighed, then started laughing. "I was wondering when I'd be forced to answer you." For a moment, there was silence between us, then she started. "Why me…? Oh, that's not simple. I wish it were…"

"Just tell me."

"All right." A quick breath. "The prophesy—I know you've never seen the whole thing, so relax—but it says that not only must Erik be affected by the curse, his caretaker must be as well."

"Then why you? I thought…?"

"Yes, my mother did take care of him." She sighed. "But when Étienne made his curse, my mother was dead. My mother could not be affected, so instead of her, the curse chose me as its victim—as Erik's caretaker." She fidgeted with a sleeve for a moment. "He was like the brother I couldn't stand—he frightened me all my life. But when I realized what had happened, I…well, I knew I had no choice. I had to care for him. I'd been taking care of him already—but as little as possible. I mostly left him to his own devices, down in a small apartment where no one would think to look for him. As soon as I could arrange it, we left Paris—him and me. I took him to London—he'd always wanted to go—and set up my dance school.

"What I didn't plan on was Étienne following me to London. He hounded me from the day we arrived—he was only a young boy, still barely thirty…I was already well into my sixties, and could not understand what he saw, what he wanted. But…" She sighed. "Kit, we had a child, Étienne and myself—you know him as Christopher Chagny."

I stared at her, my mouth agape. "You…you're…"

"I'm your great-great-grandmother, yes." She smiled. "That makes Margery your half-great-grandaunt. Frightening, isn't it?" She sighed, the smile on her face dying. "But he never knew, Étienne—not until Christopher was born. He didn't know the curse had affected me—he didn't think it had worked. At that moment, he knew—he knew the Phantom his mother had known was real, and he asked me if he might meet Erik."

I shook my head. "Foolish."

"Yes, it was. Erik nearly killed him."

"Nearly?"

"I begged him not to. He only spared Étienne's life for me—when he realized Étienne was to be a father. He said he couldn't take the boy's life, even after what he'd done, when he had a child on the way." There were tears in her eyes—I could see them threatening to fall. "He did die, though—when Christopher was ten. I spent the rest of his days caring for my boy—and for his boy, little Taylor, and then for Taylor's son." She smiled. "Your father, little Owen. I thought it would be much longer before the prophesy would be fulfilled, but when your mother gave birth to a girl…" She sighed. "Your parents knew who I was, _what_ I was—it was better that you and your brother never knew."

"Why?"

"Because, my dear—you were born to be like Christine. That meant in every way. She was an orphan—if you knew that, how happy a childhood would you have had? As it was, you only had a few years with them—at least they were happy. If you'd known you'd lose them, what good would it have done you?" She stood up. "I made a promise to your parents, to help you see this thing through, and now that you know everything, I think it's time." She took a book from her night table and handed it to me. "Read this—it's Étienne's journal. It's not long—he only started it when Christopher was five. But the prophesy is in there as well—I made him write it down again. Read it." She walked to the other side of the room and sat down in a chair, a tear streaking down her cheek.

I looked at the book for a moment, then put it on the bed. "No, Meg." She went to speak, but I cut her off. "No. I don't care. Whatever's in here can't possibly be as important as what we need to do right now."

"And that is…?"

"Erik's in a cage downstairs. We need to get him out."

She sat by me on the bed now, handing the book back to me. "No…we can't."

"But…"

"No 'buts,' child. Do you really think Erik would want you risking your life to save his?" She sighed. "It's useless, anyway—he'll be fine. He's immortal, after all. They can't hurt him."

I nodded as she got up and walked off again, now pacing back and forth. I opened the book to the page she'd marked and started reading, translating what I could in my head. "_…Et que l'on sera né et il finira dans sa douleur et souffrance…_" I paused. "Meg…? Does that…does that mean _me_?"

She nodded, staring at a crack in the wall. "Yes. You will put an end to his pain and suffering."

I looked at the line again; after Meg's words, it warranted closer inspection. After a moment, I wished Étienne was still alive so I could kill him myself. I stared at the fire Meg had just lit and was now stoking, wondering vaguely if she'd mind my using the journal to help it out.

* * *

Author's Note: For anyone who cares/notices, Erik's quoted line from the prophesy and Kit's line don't match. I'm already aware of this. It's done on purpose and can be accounted for like this: Kit's actually reading it out of the book, Erik's not. For reference, however, they translate out to roughly the same basic idea.


	14. Keeps Getting Better

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York, NY, USA—May 16, 2032**_

_**Erik—3:30 PM**_

We hit the lobby together, hand in hand—Kit gave me a few frightened glances on the way down in the elevator, and all I could do was squeeze her hand gently to reassure her. The first person I caught sight of was Margery—her back, at least—and over her shoulder was slung a head, topped with long red hair. "_Mon Dieu_," I breathed.

At this, the redhead looked up at me and exhaled the same. "Erik?"

Kit had already run over to them, but I was frozen in place. "Perrie. You're…" She nodded, and surprisingly, I felt tears spring to my eyes. When I had seen her, lying on the stage that day, covered in blood… She hadn't deserved to die. Without knowing how, I had crossed to her and was embracing her.

"Damn! That's _really_ nice!" a sarcastic voice shot from the other side of the lobby. "You hug her _first_. Not your _best friend_, not the guy that took a _bullet_ for your _pregnant_ wife…"

I turned, grinning. "I should have known."

Toby grinned back at me. "Can't kill me. I'm with the Phantom." We embraced, laughing.

After the girls had retired upstairs to talk, Toby and I went into my office. Without any semblance of small talk, he started. "So, any openings for a slightly used stagehand?"

I sighed. "You were always direct. And I don't see how I can be any less with you, _mon ami_." There was a moment's pause. "I can probably find something."

He grinned. "In other words, you're full up, but you're not going to turn a friend away because by some twist of fate, Death let him go." He tilted his head, sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk. "Odd, though, that Perrie's back too."

"And Meg," I said, deliberately pausing to let the words sink in.

They had their effect. "M…Meg's still here, too?" He ran a hand through his hair. "Jeez, if I'd known _she_ was here, too, I'd have stayed in that coffin."

"Well, I know you liked her…" I winked at him. "And she's back, and something happened that brought her back _young_…"

Again, the hand went through his hair. "Erik, you never noticed?"

"Noticed what?" Immediately, I saw his cheeks flush. "_Dieu dans le ciel_, Toby, what?"

"Erik, I'm…" He sighed. "I'm gay."

There was a strange buzzing noise in my ear. "Then…if you're… Then what's the problem with Meg being…?"

"She likes to complain that nothing's good enough, that nothing's in its right place… Just annoying stuff like that. And I can't take it."

"Well, no sweat," I said, grinning. "Margery takes care of that stuff now."

He looked confused for a moment. "Wait. What do you mean, Meg's _young_?"

I sighed. Explaining this ninety more times was going to get very old.

And that buzzing noise wasn't going anywhere.


	15. Shock Waves

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York, NY, USA—May 20, 2032**_

_**Kit—1:45 PM**_

The cast and crew's shock at seeing Erik back—not to mention Toby, Perrie, and Meg—had been priceless. But after the momentary shock-and-awe-fest, it had been back to business as usual—for the most part. By the end of the day on Monday, most of the cast was still in a bit of shock.

By the beginning of work on Thursday morning, the shock had worn off. We had bigger problems to deal with.

We had just come back from lunch when Sophia came hustling onto the stage, panting and calling for Erik. He immediately rushed to her. "What is it?"

"The… In the…" She was gesturing wildly toward the lobby. Without waiting for further explanation—it seemed unlikely at any rate, given the state of shock she was in—he took off toward the lobby. After a moment, I followed him—and from the sounds behind me, I could tell everyone else was following me.

He hit the door with a firm hand—it flew open, apparently not wanting to argue with him. Only a foot into the lobby, he stopped. I stopped behind him, staring over his shoulder. "What…?"

The lobby was full to capacity—people milling around, most demanding in irate and mostly unintelligible French to know exactly where someone or other was. As we two stood there, agape, a uniformed New York City police officer came over to us. "You Muhlheim?" he asked Erik. I looked up, but he was only nodding, mouth still hanging open. "Well, I guess I'll leave them to you, then."

"Wha…" I watched Erik lick his lips and clear his throat. "What am I supposed to _do_ with these people? For that matter, _who_ _are_ these people?"

The officer shrugged. "They were transported here on a bus from JFK this morning. All I was told is that they were flown here from Paris—and apparently, a lot of them were brought to Paris from elsewhere. But that's all I was told."

I was confused a moment. I looked at Erik—he wore the same confused look. Then, as though God couldn't bear our stupidity any longer, a shriek sounded from the back.

"_C'est le Fantôme! Le Fantôme de l'Opéra!_"

"Oh, _fuck_ no!" I turned and punched the door. Immediately, I wished I hadn't—my hand started throbbing. Tears sprang to my eyes as I felt Erik's arms about me.

"Why did you do that?" he whispered in my ear. Taking my now-throbbing hand in his, he stroked the back of it gently with his thumb. "Why, Kit?"

"It's not fair. They shouldn't be here."

"But they are." He sighed. "And there doesn't seem to be anything we can do about it."

I sighed with him. He was right. As much as I didn't want them here, here they were, and there was little to do about it except welcome them and then ignore them. I turned toward him, our hands still together.

"Shall we go see who's here?" I nodded slowly. Keeping my hand in his, we walked into the middle of the crowd—as we did, they all took visible strides backward, trying to put as much distance between Erik and themselves as they could.

He looked around at them, anger rising in his eyes. "_Arrêtez-le!_" Most of the crowd stopped moving—a few people kept taking baby steps backward. "All right, now in English: _Knock it off!_" Now everyone stopped. He took a deep breath, and was about to speak when a voice from the crowd cut him off.

"_Comment osent vous me lever votre voix!_"

I watched the color drain from Erik's face. "_Ce n'est pas possible…_"

People were shoved aside, and from the crowd emerged a twisted, wrinkled little man. For a moment, he stood toe to toe with Erik, glancing him up and down. After a moment, he spoke, his voice heavily accented. "So… I did not expect to see you again. _Ever_."

Erik swallowed hard. I could have sworn I saw fear in his eyes. "Nor I you…"

"And yet, you _dare_ to raise your voice at me?"

Erik's hand started to shake. "_Je suis désolé…_Papa_._"


	16. Filthy Beasts

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

Rouen, France—May 15, 1851**_

_**Erik—1:30 PM**_

I held my breath, hoping he wouldn't hear me. He walked by the table, his feet not stopping as he passed—a slight shuffle on the right foot, nearly dead from the knee down. "_Erik!_ Get out here, boy!" I shuddered as quietly as I could, trying not to make the table shake noticeably. I didn't want yet another beating for something I couldn't help. It wasn't my fault. It _could never be_ my fault.

My father's voice was soon joined by both of my brothers—Gregoire and Simon, the traitors—all calling for me to come out of hiding. I looked out from under the tablecloth after a few minutes, when the screaming seemed far enough away. I needed a way out of the dining room without being seen, but with the thorough way they were searching, it somehow didn't seem too likely. I'd have to be unbelievably stealthy.

I shifted my feet as silently as was possible, readying myself to bolt for the stairs and up to my room—but before I could make one last check to see if the coast was clear, the edge of the tablecloth was lifted up, and I was staring into the sweet face of my sister, Celeste. "There you are, Erik."

I motioned for her to be silent, but it was too late. The others had heard her—within moments, they swooped into the dining room. Simon and Gregoire each took me by an arm and dragged me out from under the table—I put up a fight, but it was nothing doing, they had me gripped well and tight. I wasn't going anywhere.

Lifting me up off the floor—my feet were kicking in mid-air, trying to get to the ground—they brought me into the front foyer. There were three men I didn't recognize standing and talking with my father. "Ah," one of them said, spotting me—he had sandy brown hair and didn't look altogether unpleasant. "So _this_ is the little beast."

I opened my mouth to protest—I was sick of the taunting—but as I did, my father reached over and slapped me sharply across the mouth, knocking my mask loose. "Shut it, boy."

I turned to him, lips and cheek stinging, pride wounded. "_Allez à l'Enfer!_" This only earned me a much harsher blow—he landed a fist with great precision squarely on my chest, and I toppled to the ground, coughing. They were talking—my brothers had left us—I couldn't hear what they were saying. My coughing drowned out their words, but I did hear my name uttered a fair few times.

As I went to get up, one of the strange men—this one had on a pair of dirty boots, from what I could see—pushed me back onto the floor. "No need for you to get up, boy. It'll make our job harder if you do." I desperately wanted to ask what the hell was going on, but knew it would only earn me a beating—I wisely kept my mouth shut.

After a few minutes, I watched the third man hand my father an envelope. As my father stepped out of the foyer, the man knelt down by me—I couldn't miss his bright blue eyes as he stared into mine. "Now, you just do what you're told and you won't get hurt. Clear?"

"I…"

He slapped me lightly across the lips, knocking my mask off. I went to catch it, but he stopped me, and I could only watch as it hit the floor and cracked in two. "You won't need _that_ anymore anyway."

"But…"

He slapped me again, slightly harder this time. "Rule number one: don't speak unless you're asked a direct question. Understand?"

I nodded, my cheeks burning in humiliation. To be treated this way by my own family was one thing—but this man, a complete stranger? As he rose to his feet, I glanced over at my father, still in the doorway. He was counting a stack of bills, and I couldn't help but notice that the envelope was now seemingly empty. My stomach sank, for the realization did not take long.

_He had sold me._

I went to call to him—to beg, plead, do whatever it took to get him to reconsider—but I thought of it too late. Sandy Hair and Dirty Boots had me down on the floor in half a moment and were tying my hands and feet tightly. I didn't dare struggle—I knew it would do little good. One of them—I couldn't see which—tied a rag about my mouth, then both hoisted me to my feet and dragged me out the door, to a waiting carriage. They threw me into it—I landed on my back with a groan of pain, but I doubted they cared much. One by one, they climbed in after me, and when all three were settled, the driver took off. I struggled a little, to see if the ropes would give even slightly, but all I managed to do was chafe my wrists.

I wasn't sure how long the trip was—maybe an hour, and even then I'm not entirely certain I was awake the whole time—but eventually I was hauled out of the carriage and dragged into a tent. There was a waiting cage, and without ceremony, they untied my bonds and shoved me into it, slamming and locking the door behind me.

I slammed myself up against the bars as they made to leave. "Let me out! _Let me go!_"

Blue Eyes pushed his face close to mine—as close as he could get through the bars of the cage. "Not a chance, you filthy little beast. You belong to us now." He pinched my cheek, and I twisted away furiously. "You are going to make us so rich." He walked away, chuckling. "They _always_ pay to see the freaks."

I screamed myself hoarse, begging them to let me go, but no one came to listen to me or even silence me. After a few hours—it was pitch dark—I stopped screaming. It was hopeless—I was trapped. My own father had _sold_ me—to do what, only God knew. I clenched one hand into a fist, trying desperately not to shake it at the ceiling of my metal prison. I felt a sob well up inside of me, and knew I would not be able to choke this one down. I spotted a tiny pile of straw in the corner of the cage—I supposed it was for my bed. Slinking over to it, I forced myself down onto it—it was rough, but I had no choice—and turned onto my side.

The tears came—hard, fast, wet—only a moment later.


	17. Nothing

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York, NY, USA—May 20, 2032**_

_**Erik—2:00 PM**_

"And yet, you _dare_ to raise your voice at me?"

My hand started to shake. "_Je suis désolé…_Papa_._" I felt my chest tighten—I couldn't breathe properly.

Though I now towered over him, he didn't seem afraid of me. It took nothing for him to deal me a severe blow across the face—stunned, I fell to my knees, listening to the amazed gasps of those around me. When I could look at him, I saw him staring down at me. "Get up," he said, reaching down and yanking me partially upright by my collar. I obeyed—as soon as he released my collar, I climbed the rest of the way to my feet. "You're as pathetic now as you ever were, _Erik_." He spat my name, as though just the word left a bitter taste on his lips.

I could feel myself shaking all over now. "That's your opinion." I saw his hand coming—ready for it this time, I managed to stay on my feet, my head snapping to the right.

There was silence as he looked me over. I kept my head exactly where it had landed. If I looked at him, I was liable to do something I would deeply regret. "If I hadn't come," I heard him whisper, "I wouldn't have believed it. To see this…_shame_…with my own eyes…" Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him shake his head. "You dared to use my name, the name I so generously _allowed_ you to use, on this…"

I turned back. "I used the name because it was the only name I had. I…" My breath was coming in short, ragged bursts now. Staring at the man, I suddenly felt twelve again. "I…I would think you would be proud of me."

"Pride? In you?" He snorted, turning away. "_Vous n'êtes rien à moi. Vous n'êtes pas mon fils._" I watched him walk to the rear of the crowd, tears stinging my eyes.

"Erik…" Kit's voice sounded from my left. I couldn't look at her. "Darling…?"

Pushing my way through the crowd, I headed into the office and slammed the door shut. The moment I heard the lock click into place under my hand, I lost it. I took two steps and collapsed to my knees in the middle of the room, sobbing.


	18. Angel Again

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York, NY, USA—May 20, 2032**_

_**Kit—2:15 PM**_

I jiggled the knob of the office door again—locked. From the other side, I could hear quiet sobs. A hand touched my shoulder. "Do you want me to do something?"

Toby. I turned to him. "Would you kill that bastard, please?"

He grinned. "Anything for Erik. What's the bastard's name?"

I sighed quietly. "_Raoul_ Muhlheim." As I turned back to the door, a soft, feminine voice chirped near me.

"_Cela ne vous fera aucun bien. Il est un homme horrible et ne peut pas être arrêté. Vous êtes trop jeunes pour lui faire peur._"

I turned toward the voice. It was a girl—I guessed late teens, maybe early twenties by the lack of wrinkles on her face and the untarnished brunette curls. "What do you mean, it'll do no good?"

She sighed, then spoke, her voice heavily accented. "I have had the…how you say?…unfortunate pleasure to know him. He is…" She lowered her voice, looking around to see if anyone was listening. "_Le père du Fantôme._"

I couldn't say anything. The moment I looked at Toby, he spoke. "And what does that have to do with anything?"

"God graced _le Fantôme_ with such talent because…" She stumbled. "Because of his…what his father did."

"What talent?" I could taste cotton in my mouth and I was unsure of the reason.

The girl stared at me for a moment, then a faraway look came into her eyes. "Singing…composing…I even knew him to dance a little…" The look disappeared, and she stared straight at me. "How do you know him, _mon Ange du Musique_?"

I felt a cold sweat break out on the back of my neck. I wanted to stay silent, but my mouth had other plans for me. "Are you…" I swallowed hard. "Are you, by any chance, Christine Daaé?"

She grinned and curtsied. "_Oui_. You have heard of me, then?"


	19. Her

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York, NY, USA—May 20, 2032**_

_**Erik—2:30 PM**_

I wiped my eyes with my handkerchief, replacing it in my pocket when I was through. Slowly, I climbed to my feet. How _dare_ that man make me into a child, and in front of Kit…

Just as my thoughts turned to her, there was a loud _thump_ against the door, and Toby's voice. "Kit!"

My heart leapt into my throat. I raced to the door, grabbing the knob and twisting hard. The moment the door opened, I almost wished I had left it closed. Toby was kneeling on the floor in front of the door—Kit was lying in his arms, unconscious. Toby looked up at me. "Erik…"

"What was that sound?" My voice wouldn't reach full volume.

"Her…her head hit the door…"

"_Baisez-moi!_" I dropped to my knees beside him, taking Kit from him. "_Chaton? Chaton!_"

"She's out, Erik."

I glared at him, snarling. "_Je peux le voir, crétin!_"

Immediately, I regretted my words. Toby stood, glaring down at me. "_Je vous ai traités comme un frère et c'est comment vous me remboursez? Casse-toi!_" He stomped away, pushing through the crowd that had gathered.

I looked up. So many familiar faces… Using my chin to gesture, I indicated a friendly face in the front. "_Simon, aidez-moi, s'il vous plaît._" With a look that plainly said he'd rather ignore me, my elder brother knelt down and gently lifted Kit's feet. Together, we brought her into the office, laying her on the sofa inside. "_Merci._"

He frowned at me. "Your French isn't what it used to be. You're too…American."

"Of course I am," I said, kneeling down by Kit, not looking at him. "You would expect me to be what, exactly, living in this city?"

"I would _expect_ you to be _French!_" He pulled me up and spun me to face him. "You are French, and of all the things I would have expected you to abandon, your _heritage_ was _not one of them!_" He breathed heavily for a moment. "Your _name_, your…your _face_, of all things… Damn it, Erik, you've lost _everything_ that made you truly French."

I stared at him a moment…then burst out laughing. "Simon, you've been here all of an hour. How can you _possibly_ hope to back up this claim?"

He drew himself up to his full height, but if his aim was to intimidate me, he failed. I still towered over him—a full six inches, at least. "You _married_ an American."

I motioned to Kit, still unconscious on the sofa. "You mean _her?_"

"Of course I mean her. You think I watched Papa humiliate you and didn't see her expression? You think I didn't see the way you acted when you saw her unconscious? She's more than a friend to you. You care for her more than that, and she for you. That…" He chuckled. "That, and the wedding bands on your left hands match."

I frowned. "Always an eye for detail, _mon cher frère aîné._ But…"

"But?"

I grinned. "Yes, Simon. _But._ You missed one crucial detail, I'm afraid."

"And that would be…?"

I turned to Kit, smiling. "She isn't American."

"Of course she is!"

"No, no." I turned my face to my brother. "_Elle est anglais, cher frère._ _Pas américain._"

He laughed. "_Obviously_ born here."

"_Non. Pas des États-Unis. De l'Angleterre. Née en London._" I grinned—his expression showed his irritation with my French. "Does it bother you, Simon? Does my French _annoy_ you? _Irritate_ you?"

He didn't speak. He didn't have to. His fist connected squarely with my jaw. Caught off guard, I stumbled a bit and nearly fell over onto Kit. I'd have screamed at him, but the pain radiated through my jaw and rendered me silent.

"The next time you speak with that vile, disgusting, _vulgar_ excuse for French in my earshot…" He leaned toward me, whispering now. "_Je couperai votre gorge, pour que vous ne puissiez jamais insulter notre langue maternelle de nouveau._" I shut my eyes, listening as he walked out the office door and closed it firmly behind him.

I massaged my jaw for a moment, Simon's threat still ringing in my ears. What had I done to him to deserve that? I didn't have time to think about it—the moment I started, Kit began to rouse.

Kneeling by her, I took her hand. "Kit? I'm here, Kit. Come back to me."

She opened her eyes, slowly. "Erik…!" Her eyes held fear. "She's _here_, Erik."

"Who's here, _ma chérie_, who?"

"_Her._" The tone in her voice left no more room for questions. I knew that tone…that expression twisting her features into a gruesome snarl.

I sighed. "_La Vicomtesse de Chagny,_" I muttered.

So many people to take care of…and I had to deal with that bitching, preening prima donna.

* * *

_**Author's Note**_: Because there's so much of it in this chapter, I'll translate some of the French. Some of it I'm going to leave you to figure out on your own. I won't do this for every chapter, though—just the ones with more French than usual. (N.B. If cursing offends you, stop reading now.)

"_Baisez-moi!_": Fuck me!

"_Je peux le voir, crétin!_": I can see that, moron!

"_Je vous…Casse-toi!_": I've treated you as a brother, and this is how you repay me? Piss off!

"_Elle est…américain._": She's English, dear brother. Not American.

"_Non.…London._": No. Not from the United States. From England. Born in London.

"_Je couperai…nouveau._": I shall cut your throat, so that you can never insult our mother tongue again.


	20. Him

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York, NY, USA—May 20, 2032**_

_**Gabrielle—2:30 PM**_

It wasn't easy to take in the crowd of people in the lobby—there were too many of them. Not that I'd recognize too many of the faces anyway. And not that I'd care if I did, either. Besides, none of them were looking at me—well, not closely. I was just another face, just another girl wearing a dance outfit.

"Gabrielle Summerton!" I turned—Margery was hissing at me. "Stand up straight!"

I narrowed my eyes. "We're not even doing anything."

"Are you talking back to me?"

I sighed. "No." She silenced, and I looked around again. A sea of unfamiliar faces stared back. I scanned the crowd, from the elevator to the front door.

And by the front door stood the one person I recognized.

His hair was jet black, greasy and uncombed. His clothes were disheveled, as though he'd slept in them—and by the looks of it, he had been for awhile, it seemed to be the suit he'd been buried in. His wire-rimmed glasses sat low on his nose, and as I stood staring at him, he pushed them up with his ring finger.

I growled low in my throat. How _dare_ that man show his face here? I was certain if either of the bosses came out of that office and saw him, they'd order him thrown from the building or have him arrested. Or maybe both. But I doubted I could get that lucky.

My head snapped to the office door as it opened, and both Erik and Kit came out into the lobby. There was a rush toward them—in only a moment they were both surrounded by people and blocked from view. I turned my attention back to the man near the front door. He was the only one who hadn't moved.

As the crowd around me started toward where Erik and Kit had been moments before, I slowly sauntered over to the man near the door. He turned toward me, his brow furrowing. "Don't…I know you, don't I?"

I nodded. "But you don't remember me."

"I'm afraid I don't."

I sighed. "You're Darius Nehil, right?" He nodded. "I'm Gabrielle."

There was a moment, and then he shook his head. "I'm…I'm sorry, I don't…"

"That affair you had in 2008—with Melanie Summerton…"

His eyes suddenly lit up. "Oh, Melanie. Oh, right…her…"

"I'm her daughter." A pause. "I'm _your_ daughter."

He stared at me for a moment. "Now I remember. Little Gaby." He leaned toward me and lowered his voice. "Do you still…your mother told me about your dabbling. Do you still…?"

I nodded. "Why?"

"I need to ask a favor of you."

"What?"

He leaned in further, whispering in my ear now. "I want revenge on that _bastard_, Erik. Will you help me?"

There was a long pause as he drew himself back up, staring at me. I thought for a moment. It was true, I was no novice in the Black Arts—I'd been practicing them for as long as I could remember, Mom had insisted on it—but I did seriously doubt my ability to best the Phantom at them. Erik had been practicing them long before I was even a thought. And then there was the fact that Erik _was_ my employer. I worked for the man. I couldn't possibly keep such a secret safe—I couldn't possibly hide the fact that I was trying to kill him. At least, I couldn't hide it well.

But in the end, I had to make a choice. I looked at Darius—at my father—and smiled. "Hey, it's worth a shot, right?"


	21. Them

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York, NY, USA—May 20, 2032**_

_**Kit—2:40 PM**_

The moment we stepped out of the office, every eye in the lobby turned to us. Instinctively, I ducked behind Erik—but before too long had passed, he pulled me to his side instead. "Stop it," he whispered in my ear. "You're a grown woman, not a child." Before I could counter, his gaze had fixed on _her_. "Ah, Christine. You _are_ here."

She looked him up and down, her eyes wide. "It is you… But…they said you had died…"

"Any and all rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated, for here I stand," he said dryly. "And I assure you, I am very much alive."

I spotted Sophia, weaving her way in and out of the crowd—it seemed, with Meg's help, that they were trying to assign rooms to people. I could have laughed—there were more than enough rooms for everyone, of course, but trying to keep feuding to a minimum was going to be next to impossible with this lot. Leaving Erik to spar with Daaé—he was a grown man, after all, he could do just fine by himself—I started over toward Sophia and Meg.

Before I got very far, Sean caught my arm. "Kit, look." Following his gaze, I spotted a familiar face—a young man—and then two more standing beside him, another man and a woman.

"It…it can't be." I turned back to Sean. "It _can't_ be. They…" I thought for a moment. It was possible, if the spell had brought back _everyone_ in that tomb…but as I looked about the room, trying to clear my head, I realized most of the crowd was staring at me. Some were whispering among themselves—I could only guess it was about me. Acting braver than I felt, I started over to the three familiar faces.

When I was nearly to them, the young man turned to me. His mouth hung open a moment, he looked me up and down, then tugged on the sleeve of the woman next to him. "Uh, Mum? You might want to look at this."

She turned, along with the other man. "My God in Heaven…is that my Kit?"

I grinned, tears springing to my eyes. "Mum…" Without another sound, I raced forward and hugged her. After a moment, I felt two more pairs of arms about me—my dad and my brother, Gregory.

As we pulled away and started to talk, Meg and Sophia interrupted. "'Scuse me, Kit," Sophia said, "but could we possibly steal your parents for a few?" I nodded, and Mum and Dad went off with them.

I turned to my brother. "Kit, what's going on?" he said before I could open my mouth. "One minute, I'm laying in a hospital bed, and the next thing I know, I'm standing in the middle of a cemetery, being introduced to relatives I _know_ for a _fact_ are supposed to be _dead_."

I sighed. "I wish I could explain this, Greg, but I'm not the one to do that. Why not ask Meg, or maybe…"

"Meg? _Auntie Meg?_" His head whipped around. "Where is she?" I pointed her out to him, and he stared at me for a moment, his brow furrowed. "That _can't_ be her. That girl's maybe sixteen at the most."

"And you're how old?" I stared at him for a moment. "You died, Greg. You died when you were fifteen, and yet you're standing here looking about…twenty-five, maybe."

He nodded. "They told us we'd died. I just…I didn't want to believe it. But then how…?"

"Magic. Simple answer." I gestured toward Erik, who was still talking with Daaé. "If you want a more detailed answer, you'll have to ask that chap over there."

He glanced from Erik to me. "Who is he?"

I smiled at him. "That, dear brother, is my husband—the _former_ Phantom of the Opera."


	22. Pas de Deux

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York, NY, USA—May 20, 2032**_

_**Erik—9:30 PM**_

Finally. Every one of the uninvited guests was finally tucked away in their rooms, and I had the stage to myself. I sat down at the piano, running my hand gently over the keys. How I wanted to play… But I didn't dare—there was still work to be done. As I took a stack of papers from the top of the piano, I heard footsteps, accompanied by a woman's voice.

"You never said hello to me, Erik."

I looked up, but not toward her. "Antoinette. So you _are_ here."

"_Oui._"

I turned toward her. She looked stunning—her usual black dress had been replaced with a more modern blouse and skirt, in pastel colors. "You look…you look good," I said. I could feel my blood running cold at the mere sight of her; this woman, who had treated me as nothing more than a plaything… Yet I still remembered the warmth of her touch, how wonderful she had made me feel… In an effort to distract myself, I cleared the papers from the keyboard and started to play—first just some simple chords, and then it evolved into "Strawberry Fields Forever."

But halfway through the song, she sat down on the bench next to me. "I'd nearly forgotten how talented you were," she said, her voice sultry and low. "Will you play _our_ song, Erik? Surely you haven't forgotten it?"

Immediately, I stopped playing and turned to her. "Annie, I can't do this."

"Can't do what?" Her eyes were laughing at me, but her face held a frown. "Can't play me a simple…"

"I can't do _this_," I said, motioning between us. "I don't know what you want from me, but I'm…I'm _married_, Antoinette. Happily married."

She flipped her auburn hair over one shoulder. "I know that." She leaned toward me seductively. "But I don't care." Before I could stop her, she had grabbed me and pressed her lips against mine. In an instant, everything she'd ever done to me came rushing back—I wanted to push her away, scream, call her every possible name I could in every language I spoke—but I didn't.

I didn't do any of it.

I clung to her and let her take control.


	23. Scent of a Woman

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York, NY, USA—May 21, 2032**_

_**Ruth-Ann—12:45 AM**_

"She keeps the Moët et Chandon where she thinks I can't reach it…" I dug around in the back of the cabinet, feeling for the bottle I knew was there. After a moment, my hand grasped the neck of the bottle, and I pulled it out. "I think I'll drink, she said, while I browse the Internet…" As I reached for a champagne flute, I heard someone at the front door and froze.

"I think those are the wrong lyrics, Ruthie." My father's voice floated into the kitchen. "And perhaps you should put that bottle back where you found it."

"But Papa…"

When I turned to the doorway, he was already standing in it. His arms were crossed in front of his chest and he was frowning. "Put the bottle back. _Maintenant._"

"But…but Papa…"

"_Maintenant!_"

"_Oui, Papa._" I did as I was told, only hesitating for a moment. When I turned back to him, he was still scowling at me.

"Where is your mother?"

I was a little taken aback. "She's in bed. She went to bed _hours_ ago."

He nodded, turning away. "You should be as well. There's work to be done tomorrow." As he walked off, the scent of his cologne came wafting toward me. I sniffed for a moment—it smelled different. It smelled almost like perfume.

I shook my head. That wasn't right. I must just be imagining things. I sat back down at my laptop, browsing for wedding stuff.

_**

* * *

New York, NY, USA—May 21, 2032**_

_**Gregory—1:00 PM**_

Hiding above the stage was the perfect vantage point to watch rehearsals—especially the new principal first violinist, Joanna Cowan. I watched her rehearse a quartet piece, her blonde hair and violin the only things visible from my viewpoint.

I heard footsteps on my right, and without turning, knew exactly who it was. "Hi, Toby."

"Hey, kiddo," he said, crouching down next to me. He followed my gaze. "You do know she's like four years older than you, right?"

I sighed. "Yeah."

He chuckled. "You are _way_ out of your league."

I turned to him. "_Mange merde._"

His eyes went wide. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

Ignoring him, I went back to staring at Joanna. She was now talking to my father, a smile on her face. She looked pleasant enough—though I'd heard from Ruthie that she could be quite rude, I didn't believe it.

Feeling braver than I had in a long time, I got up and started down to the stage. As I hit the last stair, she was just passing me. I gulped as she turned and looked at me. "Hi," I said.

She smiled, and I felt my heart start racing. "You must be Gregory." I nodded and held out my hand, feeling foolish. But after a moment, she took it—thinking quickly, I bowed slightly and brushed the back of her hand with my lips. She giggled. "You're cute." Someone called her name from the stage, and both our heads snapped toward it—Freya was motioning her over to the orchestra pit. She pulled her hand back. "Sorry, I have to go. It was nice to meet you. I'll see you later." Without another word, she jogged off.

I stood staring after her for a moment, hoping she'd turn and look at me once more. Just once.

She didn't.

Feeling low, I started out toward the lobby, but a hand on my shoulder stopped me. I turned—it was my father. I gulped. "Papa?"

"I saw that," he said softly. "She's much older than you and I can't afford to lose her because of some stupid move my son makes. Understand?"

I nodded. "Yes, Papa." He walked away. I looked toward the orchestra pit—Joanna had her violin in hand and was already playing, her eyes trained on her music.

My father be damned. He couldn't control my heart.


	24. Perfection

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York City, New York, USA—May 24, 2032**_

_**Kit—7:30 AM**_

I woke slowly, savoring the coolness of the satin sheets, basking in the warm glow of the barely-risen sun. Somewhere below me, I could hear a piano picking out "Music of the Night," accompanied by a violin. After a few moments, I sat up—the voice was too high to be Erik singing.

I climbed out of bed and pulled on my robe, heading downstairs. Sitting in front of the piano was my son—his fingers were caressing the keys, playing the song perfectly. JoJo Cowan was next to him, violin in hand, playing along. I understood in an instant—Erik would not allow Gregory to rehearse with the other cast members, as he was not one, so he was training his voice the only way he could. I smiled, watching them. He was no Erik, to be sure, but it couldn't be denied that my son had, indeed, inherited at least part of his father's vocal prowess.

Gregory turned to JoJo, slowing the music dramatically. "You alone can make my song take flight…" I retreated upstairs, stopping only to look back as my son received what was, without a shadow of a doubt, his first kiss.

As I closed the door to the bedroom, the phone rang. I picked it up quickly, trying not to interrupt the two downstairs. "Hello?"

"_Chaton_, I need you down here as soon as humanly possible. I need to figure out where all my sopranos are going to end up."

I sighed. "Of course, _mon cher_." I hung up the phone, glaring at it for a moment. "_Fils de pute._ You could have warned me last night, but _no_…" I dressed in a hurry and headed down to the stage, dreading what I knew must come.

Despite training both of my children how to sing, act, and even run the theatre to some extent, I had neglected my own training for the four years Erik had been gone. I stared to shake, knowing he would be displeased with me.

The moment I stepped out onto the stage, I heard a thump of piano keys and an angry voice. "_Boucher!_ Have you fixed my damn speakers yet?!"

From the maintenance area, François yelled back. "_Ça va pas, non?_ You have to give me more than ten minutes, Erik! Everything's a mess over here!" As I walked by, I caught him muttering several curses under his breath, all aimed at Erik.

I tried to hide as I meandered my way over toward Erik, but it was no good—he spotted me sooner than I would have liked. "About damn time, Kit! What the hell kept you?" When I didn't reply, his eyes narrowed. "_Well?_"

"I don't appreciate your attitude, whatever is causing it," I said quietly.

"It's _my_ theatre, in case you've forgotten…"

Now my eyes narrowed. I leaned in toward him, dropping my voice. "True, _your_ surname is on the building, but first of all, I married you; it's _my_ name now as well. And secondly, my darling, _all the paperwork is in my name now._ One of the little inconvenient side effects of you having faked your death. So, if you want to get very technical, it's actually _my_ theatre. You as good as gave it to me four years ago."

He didn't speak for a moment. When he looked at me again, his eyes had returned to normal. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"It's all right," I said, patting his shoulder. "What did you want me down here for?" Before he could tell me, an ear-piercing shriek came from the orchestra pit. Startled, I whipped my head around, looking for the screamer—then I realized it was someone trying to sing. In an instant, I knew who it was. "_Why_ do you insist on…?"

"I don't want to hear it," he said, cutting me off. His teeth were grinding. "Whatever petty thing you hold against her—and have your entire life—_put it aside_. She is working here now and I _will not_ have you two at each other's throats."

"Erik…"

"_Suis-je clair comme de l'eau de roche?!_" There was no room to argue—his expression was back to the infuriated man from not five minutes previously.

I set my jaw. "_Ouais, entendu._"

He frowned, but seemed to accept the answer. After giving the piano a good thump, he began to play scales. "All right, _Chaton_, let me hear what four years of neglect has done to that voice of yours."

Immediately, I wanted to crawl and hide under the piano. "Erik, you…you don't really think…"

"Margery told me you haven't trained since I left," he said, almost singsong. He played a few more chords, then stopped and looked at me. "I'm surprised at you. I would have thought you'd at least want to keep _that_ part of me alive—the part I gave you."

I sighed, staring at the floor. "It was too painful. I tried—I did—but every time I opened my mouth to sing, I could hear you correcting me, coaching me… After awhile, I couldn't bear it anymore, and it was just easier to stop singing entirely."

There was silence between us for a moment. His eyes seemed softer now. With a slightly trembling hand, he reached up and stroked my cheek. "I will never leave you again. _Je jure._" His hand returned to the piano and, after playing a few chords, he started playing scales again. "Now, no more stalling. Let's hear the damage."

I took a deep breath and started singing. Almost immediately, Erik stopped playing. After a slight pause, I dared to look at him. "What?"

"Margery was right," he said quietly. "We…I… Kit, how could you just…?" He was stammering, obviously shaken. I tried to touch his shoulder, but he pulled away from me. "You were _perfect_ when I left. How could you just let that go to waste?"

I couldn't speak. The entire stage had gone silent—everyone was staring at me. I felt my face turning red. Without a word, I walked out into the lobby. Sophia was behind the desk, on the phone. I walked by her without a word, without so much as acknowledging her, and into the office, slamming the door behind me.

He couldn't—_couldn't_—be serious. I had been nowhere _near_ perfect when he'd left. I hadn't sung on that stage since I'd given birth to Ruthie—not in any serious capacity, at any rate. I sank into my desk chair, staring at myself in the blank screen of my computer. I might still look twenty-two, but the looks were just a lie; at forty-five, my voice was most certainly past its prime.

The office door opened, and I looked up—Erik was standing in the doorway. "Kit, I realize you're…"

"What? I'm what, exactly?" I couldn't keep it hidden—I was suddenly furious with him. "Say it, Erik. I'm _old_. I haven't done anything remotely resembling professional singing in more than twenty years. I've been too busy raising our children, keeping our penthouse looking remotely livable…"

In seconds, his arm was around me. "Kit, Kit, stop. I get it."

"Do you?!" My eyes were welling up, and after a hesitant pause, they overflowed. I collapsed into him, sobbing into his shoulder. "She…she comes out of the grave, and you say she sounds perfect…and me…"

"_Chaton_, stop." He hugged me tightly. "It's all right. I won't make you sing in front of everyone. Just me."

I sniffled, looking at him, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. "Just…just you?"

"Just me," he repeated. "I promise." He took my hand and led me out of the office, toward the lift. "I assume that at least my piano is still in working order?" I nodded, and he smiled. "Good."


	25. Falling

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York City, New York, USA—June 13, 2032**_

_**Erik—8:30 AM**_

With the considerable means I had at my fingertips, a simple phone call was all it took to get Kit off and packing to the spa for a day. I felt she had more than earned it for our twenty-third anniversary.

Meanwhile, I had an appointment with Antoinette. And I didn't dare to be late.

She was on the stage when I got there—dressed in a plum velvet sweater and a simple black skirt. I knew she longed to hear the song I'd written for her, but I'd long since forgotten it, and had come up with what I felt was an ample substitute. "Close your eyes and I'll kiss you… Tomorrow I'll miss you…" I grabbed her about the waist, still singing, and she laughed.

"Erik," she said, cutting me off mid-verse, "the Beatles? Really?"

I turned her about, my eyes wide. "You…how do you…?"

"Meg and Margery were kind enough to introduce me to more…um…_modern_ music," she said, a half-smile on her face. "Now play me our song. Please?"

I sighed. The moment I'd been dreading had arrived. "Annie, I don't remember it. It's been so long I've simply forgotten how to play it. I've forgotten what it sounded like, and any music I had written down for it, I've long since lost."

Her face fell. "Oh." There was silence for a moment.

"I'm terribly sorry."

"It's all right, Erik. It was a long shot in the first place." She smiled again. "Maybe you can make me forget about the song."

"And just how do I do that?" I asked, mildly curious…and a little afraid.

"Kiss me," she said, leaning forward.

Everything in my body, everything in my being, said no. The woman had broken my heart. How could I justify breaking Kit's?

I kissed her.


	26. It Shall End

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York City, New York, USA—June 13, 2032**_

_**Kit—12:30 PM**_

Sophia was at the desk when I got back. "I thought you were s'posed to be at the spa _all_ day," she said.

"Change of plans," I replied, smiling. "I came home early to surprise my _fantastic_ husband. Would you know where I can find him?"

She nodded. "Last I saw, he was out on the stage with Antoinette. But that was…" She looked at the clock. "Wow. Two hours ago. You can try the stage, but I doubt they're still there."

I thanked her, heading for the stage door. "Erik?" I called. There was no response. I searched the entire stage area, but couldn't find him.

After a second search, I tried backstage. From one of the dressing rooms, I could hear voices. I finally located which dressing room it was…and was absolutely livid. "_My_ dressing room? There had _better_ be an anniversary party in there, Erik Christian," I muttered.

I opened the door slowly, not sure what I would find…and was immediately glad I hadn't thrown it open.

Erik and Antoinette were both on the floor of my dressing room, both undressed.

I shut the door. I didn't have to _see_ him actually nailing her to know that he was, just from the noises and the fact that _all_ their clothes had been in plain sight.

Instantly sickened—_this_ was why he had sent me to the spa?—I ran for the front desk. "Sophia," I said, trying to keep calm but knowing my panic and anger probably showed on my face, "would you please get Étienne down here for me?"

She didn't question me. She didn't even respond. She simply picked up the phone and started dialing. I went into the office and shut the door behind me, trying not to cry. But as soon as I sank down into the chair behind my desk, the tears came; hard, fast, unrelenting, and wet. How could he?

After what felt like hours, Étienne walked into the office. When I looked up at him, I was momentarily startled. He had earbuds in his ears, and an iPod in his hand. Pulling one of the earbuds out, he stared at me—I could hear Ozzy's "Crazy Train" blaring from the loose earbud. "This is a _miraculous_ machine, you know. You ought to try it. It's simply remarkable. Portable music."

I had to let out a chuckle. "Yes, it is. And I have one." I motioned for him to sit, and he did, removing the other earbud. "Étienne, I have to ask you a very serious question, and I am already aware that I may not like the answer."

He smiled, but it was bittersweet. "You want to know how the curse ends, am I correct?"

I nodded, my hands beginning to tremble. "And why everyone has always translated that stupid line wrong except for me."

He chuckled. "Hazard of the magic, I'm afraid, Christine." There was a pause. "I apologize. You prefer to be called Kit, am I right?" I nodded. "I apologize again. I won't make that mistake twice."

"It's all right. It is my full name, after all."

He smiled, drawing a piece of paper from his pocket. "Have you ever seen the prophecy in its entirety?"

"Only once."

"Poor child." He slid the paper across the desk to me. "Perhaps you should read it again, just to be familiar with it, so what I will be telling you isn't complete gibberish."

I took the paper, reading.

_Pour celui qu'il a perdu, par aucune faute de son propre, cela j'avoue:  
Il ne dormira pas, comme dans la mort,  
Il n'aura non plus de bonheur,  
Jusqu'à ce qu'elle soit née, elle qui est pour lui seule.  
Et que l'on sera né et il finira dans sa douleur et souffrance.  
Et elle sera pareille avec son premier;  
Il l'acceptera ouvertement et chaleureusement.  
Pour lui ils appellent le Fantôme de l'Opéra, cela j'avoue!_

I looked back up at him. "I translate fairly well, but today my mind is…"

"…elsewhere," he finished. "I knew when you called for me. You would not have done so if you did not have need of the knowledge I possess." He smiled unnervingly. "The translation into English is on the back."

I turned the paper over.

_For that which he has lost, through no fault of his own, this I avow:  
He shall not sleep, as in death,  
Nor shall he have happiness,  
Until she is born, she who is for him alone.  
And that one will be born, and it shall end in his pain and suffering.  
And she shall be alike with his first;  
He shall accept her openly and warmly.  
For him they call The Phantom of the Opera, this I avow!_

"And it shall end _in_ his pain and suffering? I was _right_?!"

"Yes," he said quietly. "And you _are_ alike with his first—Antoinette Giry, my mother-in-law, _not_ my mother. You have only cosmetic similarities with my mother." He counted off on his fingers. "You were both orphaned at a young age, both raised by a member of the Giry family, both had a best friend with the surname Giry, both danced, both trained to sing by the Phantom, both loved by the Phantom, and yes, both named Christine. But all these are only on the outside. Antoinette Giry loved Erik, but could not possibly have had him when she wanted him."

"And you _knew_ about Antoinette and Erik?"

"Meg told me. She told me she could have possibly been Erik's daughter, but the moment I saw him I knew it wasn't possible."

"Why not?"

He laughed. "Erik's hair is brown. Antoinette's is auburn. Meg's is blonde. For that combination to happen, we would have to ignore genetics. Meg's father was a blond—and the man Antoinette is roomed with, Jean-Claude Lefèvre, has blond hair. Lefèvre was also Erik's first official kill. He murdered Lefèvre to stop him from beating a pregnant Antoinette; the two had been sleeping together at the time, and he had been upset at finding Erik in Antoinette's room. So, it stands to reason…"

"Jean-Claude Lefèvre is Meg's father? Really?" For a moment, I was shocked. But I shook it off. "Étienne, why are you telling me this?"

"To drive a point home. The man you married is a murderer. I cursed him so that he might find a moment's peace before his death, but as you've plainly seen today, when presented with the option of being faithful to you or having the woman he's coveted for so long, he chose Antoinette over you."

I was shaking. "He's still my husband."

"But do you still _love_ him, Kit?"

There was a full minute of silence in the office. I couldn't answer him. I was waging war in my head. Part of me wanted to say yes, I did still love him despite what he'd done. Part of me wanted to say no, no of course not, how could I love that cheating bastard? But I couldn't decide on an answer at all.

Étienne smiled, nodding slowly. "If you could answer me, you wouldn't need the knowledge I have, would you?"

"I suppose not." There was quiet for another minute. "So how does this end? When? Where?"

"I can only tell you how. Not when and where."

"But you know, don't you?"

He grinned. "Yes, I do. I've done more of the Black Arts than Erik could have ever hoped to master. I've seen where and when it happens, Kit, but I can't tell you."

I couldn't hide my shaking hands now. "So h-how does it happen?"

He put his hand over mine, staring into my eyes. "Kit, I'm sorry. I've shown you how already, but obviously I must tell you again."

"What? How have you shown me?"

"In a dream."

Immediately, I felt numb. "…by your hand…" I muttered.

He nodded. "Yes, by your hand."

"But what does it mean? I don't understand. What happens 'by my hand'? It doesn't make any sense."

He sighed. "Kit, for the curse to end, Erik has to die."

"I thought…"

"Whatever you thought, you thought wrong." He sat back in his chair, staring at me. "The curse _does_ end with Erik's death, but he does not get to die a natural death. He must be murdered. He was a murderer in life, and a fitting punishment is that he should be murdered. And more fitting still, it will be by someone in whom he puts complete, utter, unwavering trust."

I couldn't breathe. "M-Me?"

"Yes."

"_I have to kill him?!_"

"By your hand, Erik must die. Only then will the curse end."

"I-I can't…"

"Kit, you don't understand. You don't get a choice in the matter. You _will_ kill Erik. Whether you mean to do it or not, eventually you will. Whether you put a knife into his heart, or someone else does and you go to take it out, eventually you _will_ be responsible for Erik's death."

"You…" I could barely stand. "You twisted bastard. You _planned_ this."

He nodded, no smile on his face. "Yes, I did. Fitting punishment. I will tell you this is not the first time he will betray your marriage vows. He will do it again."

"He will _not_!" With all the strength I could muster, I grabbed him by his collar and threw him from my office, slamming the door behind him.

From behind the door, his voice echoed. "You may not want to believe it, Kit, but it _will_ happen…and sooner than you think." I heard his footsteps retreat, fading away down the lobby.

I slid down to the floor, my back against the door, sobbing.

_**

* * *

New York City, New York, USA—June 13, 2032**_

_**Erik—7:30 PM**_

I knew I was in trouble the second I walked into the penthouse. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, I turned to announce myself—and something whizzed by my head, smashing against the door I had just shut. "What the—"

"_You insufferable bastard!_"

I started to look around, but another object hit the door above my head. I ducked, covering my head with my arms as glass rained down on me. "What the _fuck_?!" When it was safe to look up, I did—Kit was standing in the center of the room, tears streaking down her face.

"You…you…" She had something in her hand, and looked ready to fling it at me—after a moment, I realized it was my mask.

"_Kit, don't!_" I flew to her side as fast as I could and, within seconds, was trying to pry the mask from her hand. "Give— me— the mask—" She released it quite easily, collapsing to the floor, sobbing as though her heart would break. Putting the mask down where she couldn't grab it to fling without getting past me first, I knelt down by her and put my arms about her. "_Chaton_, what—"

She threw my arms off, staring at me as though we'd just met. "How could you?"

"How could I what?"

"Don't give me that, Erik, you know _damn_ well what!" I could see her hands twitching—never a good sign, usually a sign she was about to strike me. "How could you do it? On our _anniversary_, of all days? Is _that_ why you sent me off to the spa all day?"

The moment the word _spa_ was out of her mouth, I knew _precisely_ what she was talking about. I knew it would be no good pretending to be stupid about it any longer; she obviously either heard—or worse yet, _seen_—us. "Kit, I— I don't know what to say."

"You could start by apologizing. Not that it'll do much good, but you could start there."

I hung my head. I couldn't even look at her. "Kit, I— I don't know what happened. It wasn't supposed to happen. I was meeting with Annie to talk about some choreography—I knew she'd want to do something like that, but I didn't actually, you know, _plan_ on it…"

"Then why did you let her?"

"I-I don't know." I ran a hand through my hair nervously. "We weren't supposed to… You know what? There's no excuse. You're right. I know that no apology in the world can even start to make up for what I did, but I am sorry. I'm sorry I betrayed you on our anniversary. I didn't send you away to do that to you, and I should never have allowed it to happen, no matter why it did. I should have had better control." I felt my eyes welling up—willing them not to overflow, I looked up at her. Her face looked carved out of stone. "I'm sorry, and I love you. Please, Kit… Please, don't leave me."

Her face softened a bit. "I'm not going to leave you, Erik. But you have to do something for me."

"Anything, _ma chérie_. Anything."

She smiled—both seductive and sardonic at the same moment. "Take me upstairs and make love to me."

Without so much as a word, I stood, scooped her into my arms, and flew up the stairs to our bedroom.


	27. Expiration Date

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York City, New York, USA—November 24, 2032**_

_**Gabrielle—12:30 PM**_

Working at Muhlheim Hall didn't pay very well—not for the dancers, at any rate—so on the day before Thanksgiving, I found myself working an extra-long shift at one of New York City's cheaper department stores. As it was the day before Thanksgiving—and we were preparing for Black Friday—I should have been working as fast as I could; instead, I had adopted my usual policy of "I'll do it when I goddamn feel like it—which will either be at the end of my shift at two o'clock, or not at all." Surprisingly, none of my supervisors had yelled at me for it yet.

As I was cleaning up the infants section, one of my supervisors found me. "Gaby! You gotta move faster than this!" I just nodded as she spouted off at me about what I hadn't done yet…just thinking to myself, "Hey, lady, I get paid about half of what you do, I don't get paid enough to give two shits how this place looks, so lay the fuck off."

Then, just as I'm about to walk away from her, she spouted off the magic words. "I need you to cover Angie's break at the fitting room. Get back there." She walked off, and I smile. Fitting room duty. Easy stuff—I can sit down, take a load off my feet, and piss off a few customers by giving them the run-around on the phone.

So much fun.

I meandered back to the fitting room, and saw Angie nervously fidgeting with a pen. "I'm here to cover your break," I said without preamble.

"Oh good," she said, and launched into a one-way conversation about something-or-other I could have cared less about. I just nodded a lot. Once she'd left for her break, I pulled the stool out from under the bench and sat down. Ahh…sweet bliss. I could hear the noontime rush being paged over the walkie-talkie, and didn't have to care.

As I was about to put my feet on the desk—a sure sign I no longer cared and would have been just as glad to be rid of the place entirely—I saw a customer heading my way. Frantically scurrying to look busy, I failed to notice when they called my name the first few times. "Gaby? I need to speak with you."

I spun around. The voice had sounded familiar, but of course I hadn't recognized him—Darius. "Da-Darius…" I had nearly called him Dad, but he could _never_ really be my dad. "…I'm at work."

"I know, so I'll make this brief." He pulled a piece of lined journal paper from his pocket and handed it to me. It was folded in half, so I could not see its contents. "Read that at your leisure. But come see me tonight and we'll discuss the plans." Without another word, he hurried away, swept up in another momentary rush toward the registers. I stowed the paper in my pocket and forgot about it for the moment.

And not a moment too soon. My supervisor paged me over the walkie. "Gaby, please."

I pulled the walkie from my belt. "Gaby here."

"Come to Heather's office, please."

Uh-oh. Heather was the assistant manager. I knew something was up—I was probably in trouble for "failure to complement a customer's shoes" or something. For all I knew, this was about the annoying children I'd called in yesterday to Loss Prevention, since they were running around and taking stuff off the shelves and putting them in random places around the store—I'd caught them and their mother had the audacity to yell at me. At _me_, not her kleptomaniacal brats.

By the time I got to Heather's office, it was nearly two o'clock. When I peeked inside, Heather gave me the strictest glare I'd ever seen on her face. "Come in, Gaby. And shut the door."

"Um…" I feigned nervousness well. "I have to clock out at two…"

"If you're a few minutes over, it'll be all right," she said. "Tell me about the incident with the kids yesterday."

I shrugged. "There were three kids running around in Toddlers and Boys. They were taking baby food, socks, pretty much anything they could grab and hiding the items behind other stuff in Domestics, Toys, and some I found in Girls. When I caught them, I didn't approach them, I just called in a complaint to LP."

"And…?"

"And LP caught them and found their mom. Their mom then inquired as to which employee got her…I'm sorry, I'm not being condescending, I'm quoting…she asked who got her 'pwecious wittle babies' in trouble."

Heather snickered a bit. "All right. And how was your attitude toward the mother?"

I sighed. "It was as professional as I could allow."

She picked up a piece of paper. "As professional as you could allow?" I nodded. "All right, well, LP has a statement here that says you said 'I hope you eat shit and choke on it.'" She glanced at me. "Did you say that?"

I breathed normally, calming myself. "That is, unfortunately, one of my quotes. I'm sorry to say I could not remain as professional as I would have liked—her children were _continuing_ to attempt to shoplift behind her while she was screaming at me, LP wasn't paying attention, and she should have been disciplining her children instead of spouting off at the employee who was only looking out for the well-being of the store and her fellow employees."

Heather nodded. "Well, as much as I agree with you, Corporate wants me to write you up. Unfortunately, Gaby, this is your third write-up in a month. After the shoplifter…"

(Shoplifter: I was scheduled as cashier, a guy who came through my line stole $50 worth of merchandise and I never noticed. LP caught it on their cameras and caught the guy. I got a write-up. No biggie.)

"…and the incident at the fitting room…"

(Fitting room incident: some stupid teenagers decided it would be funny to try and steal about $800 worth of clothes. Whole big group of 'em. One of them tried to distract me by flirting with me and I caught them—unfortunately, when they started running their mouths, my attitude got the best of me and I screamed at them till LP got there. I got a _huge_ write-up for that.)

"…we're gonna have to let you go, Gaby. I'm very sorry."

* * *

Halfway home, I remembered the folded note in my pocket. I took it out and read it. It took a few tries to get the words right—Darius had atrocious penmanship.

_Gaby, I don't know if I can put my hatred of Erik Muhlheim into words. My plan is simple. We—yes, we, there are more people in this than just you and me—find a way to take what is most precious from him. The theatre. If we can eliminate him and his family in the process, so much the better._

I walked into the lobby of Hall Tower, humming tunelessly to myself. I was sure I looked better than I felt. I couldn't wait to get up to Darius' apartment. After the day I'd had, I just wanted to pass out.

Sophia was at the front desk, and stopped me halfway to the elevator. "Gaby, Mr. Muhlheim wants to speak with you for a moment."

I sighed. Just what I needed; another chewing out by my _other_ boss. "Sure," I said, and although I was acting to stay calm on the surface, this time I was truly nervous. If Erik fired me, I had to leave the apartment building—and finding not only work, but decent housing in New York City these days was damn near impossible.

I opened the door to the office, hand trembling. "You wanted to see me…?"

He cut me off, not looking up from his paperwork. "Yes, come in, Gabrielle. And do shut the door." Just the way he pronounced my name set every hair on end. As I shut the door, he finally looked up from his desk. He indicated a chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

"Am I in trouble?"

Instead of the solemn nod I expected, he smiled. "Not at all. I've been speaking with the entire staff, trying to figure out what to do—we've got quite a few more people on staff than I'm used to." He shuffled a few things on his desk, then looked back at me. "So, Gabrielle…" He paused. "I apologize. You prefer Gaby, is that right?"

"Well…" I hesitated, unsure why. "Usually, I do, but you just make my name sound so…_unreal_."

He chuckled. "Gabrielle is a French name. I'm French. It stands to reason that I'll probably pronounce it a bit different than your mother…" He looked at what must have been my file. "…Melanie Summerton." There was a pause. "How long have you been dancing here now, Gaby?"

"Well…" I had to think for a moment. "Meg came around to my school when I was in seventh grade, so I was thirteen…uh, eleven years now."

He smiled. "You were one of the new recruits in 2021, then. I think you're the only one still here." A few more minutes of shuffling papers. "I have some bad news for you. In June of next year, your contract with us will expire. We can't renew it."

"Why not?" I sat forward, genuinely startled.

"You'll be twenty-five, and, as Margery so _gently_ reminded me this morning, well past your dancing prime." He paused—my face must have been betraying some emotion, because he continued in a much gentler tone. "I'm not turning you out, Gaby. I'm giving you what many will probably consider a promotion."

"I-I don't understand…"

"I've heard you singing backstage, to calm the dancers before a show, to help out with rehearsing steps, or just goofing off. Your voice is good—it could do with a little training, but the essentials are there. I'd like to add you to my regular cast, as well as keeping you as a dancer until June."

* * *

I headed up to Darius' apartment, my head still spinning. Any other theatre owner in the city would have seen that my contract was expiring in June, I would be "too old" to continue dancing, and simply said nothing and turned me out when the contract expired. Erik had just given me a position—and lessons—to keep from losing me. My voice had not only been complimented, but would be _trained_ by the Phantom of the Opera.

And somehow I knew Darius would find a way to use this to his advantage.

I took the elevator up to the 25th floor, and knocked on the door of apartment 25-06. I could hear chatter from inside. When the door opened, and Darius invited me into the apartment, I took a look around.

"I thought it was just supposed to be us," I muttered.

He overheard me. "Yeah, I know. But you wouldn't believe how many people wanted to join me. I told Nichole, naturally…" He gestured over toward Nichole Firmin, previous owner of the Opera Populaire in Paris; before Erik had murdered her, of course. "And of course, she knew lots more people who wanted to be a part of this."

I looked around and counted; including Darius, Nichole, and me, there were eight people crammed into the apartment. "Not very many, are there?"

Nichole rounded on me. "You should just be glad you're even here. You're only a dancer—the fact that you 'dabble' in the same magics Erik has access to is the _only_ reason you're here."

I nearly told her I was a singer now—but common sense told me to keep my mouth shut. They'd just find a way to use my good fortune to their advantage. I looked around the room some more.

Nichole was herding everyone into the lounge area, where I was, and I watched them sit. Darius and Nichole stood by the door; Piangi and Buquet, two of Erik's previous victims, took the loveseat; I was in the armchair next to them. Occupying the sofa was Jean-Claude Lefèvre—Erik's first victim, he'd claimed—and… I had to do a double take.

"Now, before we start," Nichole said, "I want to let everyone know that yes, these two are sympathetic to our cause." Here she indicated the two people I was busy staring at—Raoul and Michelle Muhlheim, Erik's parents.

We went around the room and introduced ourselves—though why we bothered, I had no idea, we all already knew each other. Then Darius and Nichole detailed out their plan—take the theatre from Erik, and if we could possibly find a way to eliminate his family too, we would.

Suddenly, I felt very uneasy about the whole thing.


	28. Happy Christmas?

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York City, New York, USA—December 25, 2032**_

_**Kit—7:30 AM**_

The morning light hit me square in the face as Erik pulled the curtains back. I grunted into my pillow, turning over to avoid the harsh light. "It's snowing _again_?" he asked no one in particular. "That's it. Everyone pack your things, we're moving to California."

I sat up, sleepy and agitated. "We're moving because you don't like the snow?"

"I'm _sick_ of the snow, Kit. It's snowed every goddamn day this week."

I stared at him for a moment. "We live in New York, you clot! It's _supposed_ to snow here in December!" He just sighed, walking out of the room. "You're impossible, Erik Christian Muhlheim!"

He poked his head back into the room. "_What_ did you just call me?"

"You heard me." I climbed out of the bed, now fully awake. He stopped me halfway to my closet.

"I thought I made it clear I _hate_ being called by my full name."

I stepped around him. "Then don't act so bloody stupid."

"_Tu es une salope!_" he spat.

I turned slowly. "I'm a what now?"

"You're not deaf!"

"_Lèche mon cul!_"

"_Salope!_"

"_Connard!_"

"_Mange de la merde et meurs, putain!_"

"_Va te faire foutre!_"

"_Nique ta mère!_"

"_Stop it!_" We both turned to the doorway; Gregory stood there, bracing himself on the doorframe. "For the love of God, it's Christmas. Can't you at least _pretend_ to get along?"

I took a deep, shaky breath, staring at both my son and my husband. "I'm sorry."

Erik looked at me, a sheepish look on his face. "I'm sorry." He turned to Gregory. "We'll stop, Greg. Go on downstairs. We'll be down in a minute." As soon as Gregory had gone, he turned back to me. "Kit, I'm sorry I woke you up. I know you're exhausted." He slowly walked over to me and embraced me. "I didn't mean to wake you. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing," I said, swatting his arm playfully. "Let's go do the 'Christmas thing,' okay?" He nodded, and we walked downstairs hand-in-hand. We weren't downstairs thirty seconds when Gregory came over to us, grinning.

"I know it's Christmas, and it's supposed to be just us, but…"

Erik cocked an eyebrow. "But…?"

"Would you mind if I brought JoJo up? I don't want her to be all alone."

"I thought I made it perfectly clear to you months ago that I couldn't afford to lose Joanna because of you!"

I sighed. "Erik, shut up." With him struck momentarily speechless, I turned to Gregory. "Of _course_ you can bring her up. No one should be alone on Christmas."

He smiled. "Thanks, Mum." Without another sound, he sprinted out the door.

As I walked toward the kitchen, Erik finally regained his voice. "Thank you _so_ much for superseding my authority, Christine. I feel quite manly right now."

"They're in love, Erik. I see no reason…"

"The boy's seventeen! He doesn't _know_ what love is yet!"

I paused, my arm halfway in the cabinet, hand wrapped around a coffee mug. "Erik, that's the first time in _years_ our son has referred to me as 'Mum.' Quite frankly, whatever your problem with him dating Joanna is, I don't give a shit about it."

"I thought we had agreed to at least compromise on things!"

"You're not the compromising type!" I pulled the mug down, setting it on the counter.

"How do you figure that?"

"When someone doesn't agree with you, you have this nasty tendency to kill them." I watched as his eyes went wide, suddenly realizing what my mouth had done. I clapped a hand over my lips. "Oh, Erik, I…"

"Don't." He turned away from me. "Just…just don't."

There was silence for a few minutes. I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. I felt like such an ass. To have said something so blatantly unfeeling…

"That hasn't been true for years," he said, turning back to me. "Decades, actually." He was quiet again, seemingly lost in thought. "2004. Paris. Nichole. She was the last one I…I _murdered_." He spat the word, as though it tasted foul on his lips. "Almost thirty years, Kit. You can't let it go?"

"I…" I was stunned. "I didn't mean to…" I was suddenly, and forcibly, reminded of Étienne's words: "_He was a murderer in life, and a fitting punishment is that he should be murdered._"

I stared at him for nearly a full minute before I found my tongue. "No, Erik, I can't. It still weighs heavily on my mind. I still have nightmares about it. You killed her not two feet in front of me. If your sword had been any longer—half an inch more—you'd have gotten me as well. _I had her blood on me._ I can't… You're a murderer, and as much as I want to ignore it, I find I can't."

He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed, his face expressionless. "So… You've waited until the Christmas of our twenty-third year of marriage to tell me this. And I expect you just expect me to act like all's well when the children arrive?"

I sighed. "I don't really care what you do anymore."

"Oh?" He cocked an eyebrow.

"Yes. I've been thinking since June, and I've finally come to a conclusion."

He smiled amusedly. "And what might that conclusion be?"

I sighed, starting to tremble. I couldn't possibly say it. He'd never believe me. But after all he'd put me through, all the hurt, the suffering, the agony, the grief…maybe it was time. "Erik, I want a divorce."


	29. Flashes

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

London, England, UK—February 13, 1987**_

_**Erik—9:30 AM**_

I could hear Meg coming for me five minutes before she knocked on my door. "What, Meg?"

She grinned. "There some people here to see you. Mind if they come in?"

I stared at her a moment. Her shirt, while a maternity style, was still rather tight-fitting—she must nearly be due. "Sure. I was just going to compose a bit, but if I have visitors, it can wait. Who is it?"

Her grin didn't leave her face, but she didn't answer me. Waving to someone behind her, she stepped into my room. Behind her came Owen and Rita Chagny—Owen was leading a petulant, protesting young boy by the hand, Rita was carrying a small bundle of blankets in her arms. "Well, hullo there, Erik," Owen said. He prodded the boy next to him. "Say hello, Gregory."

"Hi." He raised a small hand in greeting, eyes cast to the floor.

I rose from the piano bench, ambling toward them. "Well, this is rather unexpected." I grinned, greeting them all in turn—Gregory shied away from me, but I greeted him nonetheless.

Rita started rocking the small bundle in her arms. "We came as we thought it only proper to introduce you to the newest addition," she said, holding the small bundle of blankets out to me.

I peered down at it. Inside was the tiniest face I'd ever seen. "So…" I breathed. "This is her."

"Yes," Rita said softly. "This is little Kit."

I looked up at her. "Kit?"

"My idea," Meg piped up. "Christopher's nickname was always 'Kit,' and as she's supposed to be one-of-a-kind, it really wouldn't do for her to have such a common nickname as 'Chris' or 'Chrissy,' now would it?"

"No, I suppose not." I looked down at her again. I couldn't imagine, for the life of me, ever calling this little beauty "Chrissy"; the name just didn't fit. "So," I said, "how soon will the…uh, _formal_ introduction…be made?"

Rita stared at me for a moment, silent. I thought I detected a glimmer of pity in her eyes. "Sixteen."

It took a moment to hit me. "Sixteen? I have to wait _sixteen years_ to…to…"

"This is what we've decided, Erik. We think it best that she have a normal life before being introduced to her destiny." Yep, it was pity in her eyes, all right.

My temper flared. Turning away from all of them, I ordered them out of my room. Several voices protested my order—among them, a shrill cry that could only have been ripped from little Kit's throat—but I stood firm and repeated my demand. I welcomed the silence that came with Meg slamming the door behind her.

Sixteen years… I couldn't stand it.

_**

* * *

London, England, UK—June 13, 1994**_

_**Erik—8:00 PM**_

I was composing when Meg barged in—silently, her eyes cast to the floor. "Meg?" She sat down next to my bookcase, wordlessly. "Meg? What's wrong?"

"Owen, Rita, and Gregory are dead."

My breath caught in my throat. "H-how?"

"Car crash." I noticed her face now as she glanced up at me. Tears had left their obvious marks on her cheeks. I moved to comfort her, but she held up a hand to hold me in place. "No, I-I can't. I can't feel better until she can."

"She?" A moment's pause, then it hit me. "Kit's all right?"

Meg nodded. "Physically, yes, she'll be fine. Emotionally, I don't know if she'll ever be 'all right.' She had to watch her parents die, Erik."

"And Gregory?"

"He bled to death on the way to hospital, apparently."

It chilled me to think the poor boy, at only fifteen, had been made to suffer such a horrible death. It seemed overly cruel. I couldn't suppress a shiver. "_Mon Dieu._ Where is Kit now?"

"Resting in my room," Meg said. "She's my responsibility now."

"May I…" I silenced as she glared at me. "No, of course not. Sixteen, right?"

"No, Erik." Meg stood up, moving toward the door. "Tonight has convinced me that Kit and you should never meet. You should never have her."

"You can't be serious."

"Perfectly." Without another word to me, she left, shutting my door behind her.

Unable to control my temper, I picked up my inkwell from the top of the piano and flung it at the door. It shattered on impact, splattering the ink over the door, the floor, the wall, and even some of my bed. My cat—Ernestine, Ernie for short, a present from Meg—startled and ran underneath my bed, hissing. "_Merde_," I muttered.

If Meg had her way, she'd leave me down here for eternity.

_**

* * *

Paris, France—August 16, 2003**_

_**Erik—4:45 PM**_

As soon as it started to get dark outside, I pried the grate on the side of the Opera open and slipped inside, taking Ernie with me. She followed me obediently down to my lair. I looked around at the place—everything was covered with a visible layer of dust, and I nearly sneezed.

I did not like being back here. But I'd endure, if only to ensure that Kit had a future.

_**

* * *

Paris, France—August 30, 2003**_

_**Erik—11:00 PM**_

I watched through the grate as Kit slammed the dormitory door, running to her assigned bed and collapsing onto it. She was sobbing, clutching her pillow tightly and muttering to herself.

My heart broke. I hadn't meant to embarrass the poor girl—that had all been Meg's doing. I'd make her pay for it later. But to thrust Kit into the spotlight when her voice hadn't been properly trained… It was unimaginable.

"…Kit…" I called softly through the grate. Immediately, her sobs ceased; her head snapped to the side of the grate—I knew there was a large mirror there. Her eyes wide, she whispered, "It's not real. It's a dream…"

I pulled the noose out from my cape—if she thought I knew her importance beforehand, my entire plan would never work. I opened the grate and stepped out. "A dream, am I?"

_**

* * *

Paris, France—January 26, 2004**_

_**Erik—11:30 AM**_

I turned to Sean—Kit tried to keep me facing her with no luck—and laughed. "Or you'll do what? You're the most pitiful excuse for a protector I've ever seen!"

I watched Sean's lip tremble. He glared me down—but didn't move. "This isn't over," he said, turning and running back inside.

Another laugh escaped my throat. "No, it's not." I stroked Kit's hair. "Are you all right, Kitten?"

She nodded, looking at me with a half-frightened expression. "Erik…"

"Yes?"

She reached up and gently removed my mask. I sighed quietly. "I was wondering when you'd be brave enough to do that."

"I never wanted to be like _her_."

"You're not." Another sigh. "You were saying something?"

She stepped closer and rolled up into a decent demi-pointe. Her lips were close enough to…but I couldn't. I _couldn't_. "I love you."

She kissed me.

In that instant, time stood still. Forget that they were waiting for her in rehearsals. If the show failed, I didn't care. _She loved me._ It didn't feel like January on the roof anymore.

After a few moments, I realized her lips had pulled away. I opened my eyes—a tear was threatening to fall. "You…you lo…" I wouldn't let it fall…I wouldn't. "You love…" The tear fell, and I didn't bother to catch it.

She nodded. "I love you."

"After everything I've done?" She nodded again. "I'm a _murderer_…"

"I don't care. You promised me you wouldn't again."

I grabbed her about the waist and twirled her about, kissing her, never wanting to let her go. I held her aloft as we stopped spinning, staring into her eyes. "You…you're amazing." My voice wouldn't rise above a whisper, but I wanted to shout from the roof. _She loves me!_

"That's your fault," she said, a giggle or two escaping. Her laughter was infectious, and I couldn't help but let out a few chuckles as well. I turned her about in my arms—my chest to her back—and started to serenade her softly.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…say the word and I will follow you…share each day with me, each night, each morning…" I turned her again, this time to face me. "Anywhere you go, let me go too…Christine, that's all I ask of…"

She didn't let me finish.

But the kiss she cut me off with was wonderful.

_**

* * *

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA—June 22, 2005**_

_**Erik—11:30 AM**_

"Erik?" The nurse was at least friendly. "My name's Amy. I'm just going to take some preliminary vital signs before we prep you, all right?"

I nodded. I couldn't help but notice her lingering gaze on my face. She tried to make small talk while taking my vital signs, but I didn't engage. Mostly one-word answers or grunts. I was feeling rather vulnerable and, for the first time in a great many years, frightened. Immortal or not, I could suffer brain death—and if I went into it in surgery, there was no way to end it for good. I still hadn't figured out the curse yet.

Toby looked at me as the nurse left. "You could have at least talked to her, you know."

"I'm scared, Toby."

He looked taken aback by my free admission of this. "Well, little late to back out now, don'tcha think?"

"I don't want to back out. I'm doing this. I just…" I sighed. "I wonder if it's really worth it."

"You want Kit to think you're the most handsome devil on the planet? Then it's worth it. You wanna walk down the street and be able to be ignored? It's worth it. If you wanna attract stares, stand out in a crowd? Then don't get this."

I sat quietly. He was right, of course. I was tired of hiding from the world. I'd been hiding since I could remember, and this new world was one in which I wanted to take part. Within minutes, the nurse was back, and I was being wheeled into the operating room.

_**

* * *

New York City, NY, USA—February 27, 2009**_

_**Erik—10:30 AM**_

"Erik?" Kit said softly as we entered Central Park. "What's the occasion?"

"Hmm?"

"Well…you told me to dress nicely, and you're not in your usual jeans and polo shirt—what's going on?"

I gave her one of my ironic half-smiles. "You're just going to have to wait until later." As we passed a building, I gestured. "Oh…see that? We have reservations there for lunch—that's why I said to dress nicely." She stared at me. "Hey, I said later. I never said how _much_ later."

As we walked in silence, enjoying the scenery and each other's company, I found myself inexplicably heading toward Strawberry Fields. When we sat down on a bench to rest a moment, I could feel my heart racing.

"Where are we?" Kit asked me.

"Strawberry Fields."

She grinned. "Really?"

"Yes, _Chaton_. Why?"

She hugged me, laying her head on my chest. "Oh, darling—how did you know I loved the Beatles?"

"Um…" I stammered out something about it being a nice spot, but felt myself wishing I hadn't picked _today_ to do this. It could wait, right? After a moment, I shook myself—I was only being silly. I fumbled in my pocket for the ring box, but before I could pull it out, she was staring at me.

"Erik, what are you doing?"

I sighed, then pulled the box from my pocket. "I'd hoped to preface this with something, but I'll just go for it instead." I opened the box, staring into her eyes. "Christine, _veux-tu m'épouser_?"

I hadn't expected her to understand me, but when she put a hand to her trembling lips, I knew she had. "Oh, my…" Tears were welling in her eyes, and I couldn't help but smile. "_Oui, mon cher, bien sûr_."

My eyes went wide. Four years in France hadn't been lost on her, after all. I slipped the ring on her finger—a perfect fit—and slipped the box back into my pocket. But I could contain myself no longer. I picked her up and twirled her about, kissing her deeply.

_**

* * *

New York City, NY, USA—June 13, 2009**_

_**Erik—12:00 PM**_

As thrilled as I was to have had her walk down the aisle to that song, I knew I had to focus on the task at hand. If I missed something, it would quickly turn into a disaster. But having her on my arm, listening to the priest, was almost too intoxicating—looking the way she did—I wanted to take her upstairs now, ceremony be damned.

Ten minutes into the ceremony, we were each handed a long match and led over to a small table, on which were two large candles. One bore the legend "Owen, Rita, Gregory Chagny—1994"—the other read "Celeste Muhlheim—1871 & Antoinette Giry—1900." I had deliberately not included my parents or brothers—they hadn't been kind to me, so there was no reason to include them, in my mind. Antoinette had been more of a mother to me than my own ever had—and Celeste…well, insane though she was, she'd defended me when she had her moments of clarity.

As Freya and the orchestra started with "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again," I watched as Kit lit her candle, whispering a prayer while the priest spoke aloud to the assembled guests. A tear traced its way down her cheek—and I remembered. I remembered that today made exactly fifteen years since Meg had brought her to the school in London. Exactly fifteen years since her family died. It was all I could do not to sweep her into my arms and kiss her.

When she stood back from the table and had blown out her match, I stepped forward. Not having prepared something to say had been truly stupid, but I couldn't prepare for this part—I'd tried for a month. Lighting the match, I lit the candle. "I miss you two." I felt a tear start in my own eye, but I refused to let it fall. I blew out my match and took Kit's arm, returning to our previous spot in front of the priest. There were several more readings, more lectures on love, and then—finally—he asked us to take the rings. I turned to Toby and stretched out my hand.

He groped in his breast pocket, and for a moment, I thought he'd forgotten it upstairs. But he produced it, handing it to me with a small smile. Turning back to Kit, I saw she had my ring in her small hand. The priest announced that we had written our own vows—slightly true, slightly not—and that we would now recite them. He turned to me—I turned to Kit and saw her bat her eyes at me. I managed a breath and started.

"In one-hundred-seventy-one years, I have had the privilege to know many people. Many were unkind, and few thought I deserved a chance at happiness. And then, nine years ago, I met you. You were sweet, kind—and gave me the chance at happiness I had been denied for so long. I have never been as happy in my life as I am with you." I slid the ring onto her finger slowly. "I give you this ring as my promise, Christine—I will always be happy with you, no matter where we are, no matter how far apart we may be—I am a part of you, and you, a part of me."

_**

* * *

New York City, NY, USA—December 25, 2032**_

_**Erik—8:00 AM**_

"What?" I suddenly felt dizzy and nauseous. "I'm not sure I heard you right."

"You did."

"I can't possibly have."

She turned to face me. "I've been thinking about this since our anniversary. I think it's just better for both of us if we go our separate ways."

I looked for tears in her eyes—some clue her mind could be changed—but there didn't appear to be any trace of them. "Kit, I… Please, can't we talk about this?"

"No, Erik." She started away, toward the stairs. "I've made up my mind."

I reached for her wrist, to stop her, but caught the banister instead. She was running up the stairs, and before I could call to her, she had slammed the bedroom door.

Dazed, I wandered down to the stage. Being Christmas, no one was around. I grabbed the first thing I could—a microphone—and hurled it into the auditorium. Within moments, all manner of things were flying off the stage—microphones, rolls of tape, even the piano bench.

Spent, I sank onto the stage and sobbed. There would be no changing her mind this time.

I had lost her.


	30. Burn It to the Ground

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

_**

* * *

New York City, NY, USA—December 25, 2032**_

_**Kit—9:00 AM**_

I leaned against the bedroom door, eyes closed, breathing heavily. The apartment door had slammed some time ago, but I couldn't move. I felt frozen. I couldn't believe I'd actually said the words.

I shuffled my way over to the bed and sat down. I felt nauseous. To _divorce_ the man I'd dreamt about since I was a child… And still, I had been warned many times, he _was_ a murderer. Not just before I was born; I'd seen him kill with my own eyes. I'd seen how ruthless he could be, how unforgiving, how…how _brutal_.

He'd betrayed me. He'd betrayed our wedding vows. I'd hadn't seen or heard of him doing so since June, but still—wasn't once enough? Sophia, Meg, Margery—they'd all thought so. They'd all supported me.

So why was I sitting here, second-guessing myself?

I was about to flop back on the bed when the phone rang. Still feeling a bit nauseous, I reached for the receiver. "Hello?" There was silence on the other end of the line. I looked at the mouthpiece for a moment. "Hello? Is someone there?"

"_I'll die before I let you just leave me!_" Beneath the fury, beneath the pain, was Erik's old voice—The Phantom's voice. "_It'll be a cold day in Hell before you can just pry my life out of my hands like this!_" A string of rapid-fire French followed—the several words I caught were curses. "_Say it isn't so—say you won't leave me—or I swear to God, Christine, I'll burn the place to the ground!_"

I hadn't been aware of my hand trembling until I heard the cord clicking against the bedside table. "Erik, I…" What on Earth could I say? I'd sent him properly 'round the bend this time.

"I swear to God, Christine, I will burn the place—the theatre, the apartments, the _whole lot_—to the ground," he growled. "Better it should be in _ashes_ than in the hands of such a _liar_." He was silent a moment. "You promised me, at the age of sixteen, that if I taught you to sing, you would spend eternity with me when I asked you."

"But…" I hesitated. "Erik, you _never_ asked me that."

"_Liar!_" he bellowed. "You think those vows meant _nothing_ to me? They meant _everything_ to me! I had you for eternity at last!"

I couldn't stop my mouth before the words were out. "You _cheated_ on me! You negated our vows!"

"And after a hundred and ninety-four years of life, I'm not allowed _one_ mistake?"

I opened my mouth, but shut it just as quickly. I couldn't refute that one.

"_Answer me!_" His scream was so loud I could hear it echo in the background.

"Erik, I…" I felt a tear start down my cheek, and didn't dare to stop it—several more were behind it. "I can't."

There was a loud growl from the other end, followed by what sounded like several things being thrown, and piano keys thumping. When he spoke again, he was eerily calm. "I won't be cruel…yet. I'll give you one more chance to redeem yourself. But let me remind you of something."

"What?"

"When you were sixteen, I agreed to give you voice lessons _in exchange for_ your everlasting loyalty. I warned you that reneging on our deal would cost you the lives of those you held most dear." I could almost hear him smiling. "And while you may not have had anyone for me to truly threaten back then, you do now."

My blood ran cold. "You…you wouldn't hurt our children."

He laughed coldly. "Why would I punish _myself_ for _your_ sin? No, no, Kit—but I'm quite certain you'd hate to lose your parents and brother all over again, wouldn't you?" The silence that followed his question was eerie—as though he knew I was now silently sobbing. "Well, what will it be? Will you stay with me, or must they die for your betrayal? Must I burn down another theatre, _my_ theatre? It is entirely up to you—save them or don't. But choose. Now."

Shaking, crying, I felt my free hand ball up into a fist. The moment I looked down at it, I imagined a knife clenched in it—and immediately realized why I was second-guessing my decision.

Fear.

If I stayed with Erik, I had to kill him. And I could never do that.

"Either way, you win," I muttered.

"Precisely. Now choose."

"You think you can just _demand_ my love back? Demand my trust back? Hold someone I love hostage until I agree to ignore the things about you that made me mad in the first place?"

He seemed to anticipate my next thought. "If you hang up on me, Christine, I will kill one of them."

I choked back a sob, shaking. "Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Burn it. Burn it to the ground. Kill us all, for all I care." I slammed the receiver back into the cradle, shaking uncontrollably. Flopping face first into the covers, I muttered to myself. "I _married_ the murderer. I refuse to _become_ one."


	31. Prophesy Revealed

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

* * *

Author's Note—I apologize for the ENORMOUS time difference between this update and the last one. Some personal issues were the cause, as well as a burgeoning new Phan Phic, and I hope to update much more frequently now that I seem to have a handle on things. In the meantime, enjoy!

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA—December 25, 2032**_

_**Erik—9:30 AM**_

"Burn it. Burn it to the ground. Kill us all, for all I care." Then the line went dead.

I stared at the phone for a moment before hanging up. She didn't really mean that. She _couldn__'__t_ really mean that. Our children would be in danger, and no mother would willingly put her own children in danger.

Right?

I froze. Something wasn't right. This wasn't like Kit. Nothing since we'd woken up this morning had made sense to me; it was as though she'd transformed into someone different overnight.

I picked up the phone again and dialed another number. When it stopped ringing, I was unfazed to hear a female voice. "_Joyeux __Noël._"

"Happy Christmas, Meg," I said. "Can you and Etienne come down to the stage for a few?"

I could hear her brow furrow. "We were just about to come up to the penthouse. What are you doing on the stage on Christmas?"

"I'll explain when you come down here."

There was silence for a moment. "All right. We'll be right down."

I hung up the phone and put it down on the bench beside me. Resting my hands on the piano keys, I fondled them for a moment, and then began to violently play a tune I hated. Halfway through the song, I heard heavy footsteps on the stage behind me.

"Erik…" I stopped and turned around. Meg was staring at me, Etienne a few paces behind her. "_That_ song? Don't tell me you're changing back…"

"No," I whispered. "Not…not entirely, anyway." I spun around on the bench to face them. "Etienne, I'm alive because of you. _Tell __me __why._"

"What?" His face betrayed no emotion. "What do you mean?"

"Tell me _why_ you cursed me. Tell me how to end it."

There was silence between us for a full two minutes. "No."

I leapt to my feet, lunging for him and grabbing him by the collar. Meg screamed, but I ignored her. "_Tell __me!_"

Now he looked frightened. "N…no. Only one person must know how to end it."

"_Who?_"

He took a deep breath. "The person in whom you put complete, utter, and unwavering trust."

I released him and stepped back. Silence reigned again.

And suddenly, everything made sense. "Kit?"

"Yes. Kit."

I could feel my hands shaking. "How does she end it?"

Silence again. "I won't tell you."

Before I could stop myself, I had tackled him to the stage. "_Tell __me __or __die!_"

He simply laughed. "You can't kill me, Erik. But think. Just think."

Meg pulled me off Etienne, throwing me backward and landing me on my back. "You're insane!" She knelt down to help him up.

I simply lay there, staring up into the flies.

Kit would end it.

Kit would _end_ it.

"What is _wrong_ with you, Erik?" Meg said, her voice wavering.

I didn't dare look at them. "She asked me for a divorce. Kit's leaving me." Tears were welling in the corners of my eyes. "She's leaving me."

After a moment, Etienne spoke. "That won't help her."

I sat up. "What do you mean?"

"I told her everything, Erik." His face was stone. "She knows what she must do. But divorcing you…that won't save you. Even if she thinks it will."

_Save me?_

"She ends your pain. But not by divorce."

_Save_ me?

He looked almost delighted in my confusion. "_Il __ne __dormira __pas, __comme __dans __la __mort__…_. Remember?"

_He shall not sleep, as in death…_

Death.

_Death? It was always supposed to be death…but…_

"No." I hurried to my feet, panting. "_No_. You…"

"The person in whom you put complete, utter, and unwavering trust…" He smiled bitterly. "Quite fitting, I thought."

"_She __has __to __kill __me?_" I shrieked.

He simply nodded.

"_You__'__re __a __dead __man!_" I lunged at him again, but this time he ran. I followed close behind, but stopped abruptly when he slammed the stage door into my face. I stumbled and fell, blind with pain.

In seconds, Meg was standing over me. "Nothing good can come of threatening Etienne, Erik. You _know_ that." She bent down, placing the phone next to me. "Just call Kit." Then she was gone, and I was alone again.

I kicked the phone away. No phone call could mend the rift between us.

It would have to be face-to-face.


	32. My Destiny is in Your Arms

This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.

It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.

Disclaimer—same as the other parts.

* * *

_**New York City, NY, USA—December 25, 2032**_

_**Kit—10:50 AM**_

I sat up abruptly as I heard the penthouse door open downstairs. I'd completely forgotten about everything. Standing, I walked into the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. My eyes and cheeks were both an angry red; the hazard of an hour's worth of crying. I turned on the faucet and splashed a little cold water on my face.

"Kit?"

I looked back into the mirror. Erik was standing in the bathroom doorway—he'd been so quiet, I hadn't even heard him come upstairs or into the room. I couldn't make a sound. To say anything… After a moment, I noticed his eyes were as red as mine. "You've…you've been…"

"Seems you've been doing a fair share of that yourself," he said, before I could finish my sentence. With only two steps, he was right behind me, hands on my shoulders. "Kit…" He sighed. "Etienne told me everything."

I spun around. "No. No, he can't have."

"He did." A single tear slipped down his cheek. "I wish it was as easy as you think it is, but it's not. Nothing you do…"

"No!" I said, my voice a whisper, though I'd tried to scream. I couldn't even look at him. "Don't say that!"

"Christine…" His voice was soft and soothing. I looked up at him. "I know you love me. You can't fool me anymore, now that I know the truth. If I'd known…" He released my shoulders, turning from me and walking back toward the bed. "If only I'd known." He sat down on the end of the bed. "Oh, _mon Dieu_, if I'd…" I saw his hands shake a moment before another tear fell from his eye. And then another, and another. In a moment his whole body was rocking as he sobbed softly.

I walked over and sat down next to him, reaching for his hand. "Erik?"

After a moment, he glanced over at me, an ironic smile on his face. "Some Christmas, isn't it?" Tears were still streaking down his face.

I felt tears welling up in my eyes. "Erik, I…"

He held up his hand. "Don't apologize. I know why you did it." He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

"But I still want to."

Still wiping his eyes with one hand, he pressed a finger to my lips. "Don't. Please don't." He put the handkerchief down, and took both my hands in his. "_Dans tes bras c'est mon destin._" He smiled, though it was bittersweet. "Somehow, I wouldn't have it any other way."

I couldn't stop my eyes from overflowing. "But I…I can't, Erik. I can't. I can't do it!" I collapsed as he pulled me close, sobbing into his chest, clutching at his shirt with both hands.

"Then don't."

I looked up at him in shock. He'd said it so matter-of-factly… "W-what do you mean?"

"Just what I said. Don't." He smiled again. "There's nothing that says you _have_ to end my life. Just as there was nothing that said you _had_ to marry me."

"But…" I faltered. "But it's the prophesy, Erik, not me. Etienne told me…"

"Oh, _fuck him_," he spat. I stared at him, mouth agape. He _never_ used that word—not in English, anyway. "He can rot in hell. Sometimes I think we put too much stock in that stupid 'prophesy' of his, anyway. If it was really _meant_ to be the last word on the matter, then I think it would have given the date we would marry, as well as the date you're supposedly going to kill me." He chuckled. "And how you will, as well. I'm thinking it'll likely as not be a heart attack over something you bought."

I laughed for the first time all day—a long, rolling one. He joined me, and we fell back onto the bed, hugging. "Oh, God… Sometimes I forget how much I really do love you."

"Not going to argue with the heart attack theory, Kitten?"

"No, you're probably right." I sat up, feigning looking at a slip of paper. Trying my best to mimic him, I adopted a low-pitched voice. "You spent _how much_ on this…URK!" I clutched at my heart and fell over with an exaggerated expression.

Now he was laughing even harder, though with a slight grimace as I fell onto him. "I'm pleased you find it so amusing."

"Well, you know me."

After a few moments of silence, he leaned over and kissed me lightly. "Should we go downstairs?"

"Why?"

"You don't think it would be rude to ignore our guests? And our children?"

I kissed him deeply. "They can wait. We have some making up to do."


End file.
